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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496180">the flame in my hands is no longer an ember, come home (a bonfire screams it louder)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandpiperBand/pseuds/SandpiperBand'>SandpiperBand</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kindle [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Resident Evil (Movies - Anderson)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Blood and Gore, Butchering/Meat Preparation, Canonical Character Death, Confessions, Cunnilingus, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Hyper-sensitivity, Mantling, Massage, Masturbation, Multiple Pov, Overstimulation, POV Alice, POV Claire, Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wingfic, again some concerning tags to put together, alice probably should be feral but we dont have time to unpack that, alice starts to learn self worth, as a treat, claire deserves a break and also a hug, even more tender hand holding, graphic depictions of preening, im sorry i like birds, physical intimacy as an excuse not to talk feelings, possessive alice, this is a sequel but you don't need to read the first part, who could blame her</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:53:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>39,961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandpiperBand/pseuds/SandpiperBand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Opening up is difficult for both of them. Sometimes, the easiest place to start is the literal one.</p><p>Or; Five times Alice spreads her wings, and one time Claire does instead.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alice/Claire Redfield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kindle [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. take care, for once</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhStrife/gifts">SeventhStrife</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>first off: a good portion of the blame goes to SeventhStrife, who bribed me into continuing this series. So thank you!! this wouldn't be here without your delightful, never-ending encouragement and enabling v3v<br/>As mentioned earlier, this is a sequel to pyre, the first installment, but technically you don’t need to read it to enjoy this.  Either way, please enjoy! I hope you love these apocalypse lesbians as much as I do. ;0</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claire tolerates Alice’s ragged, dirt-filled wings in the Hummer for a full five days before she snaps.</p><p>“Do you <em> ever </em> clean those?” she hisses, fanning off the latest waft of dust. “I think you’ve got ten pounds of sand in there.”</p><p>Alice snorts. “I don’t need to. They manage themselves.” It’s true, technically; the feathers shed and replace themselves when she uses her powers. “Besides,” she adds, “I don’t really care about them.”</p><p>“Well, I do. If you want to sleep in the Hummer tomorrow, they’d better be cleaner.”</p><p>Alice considers a moment, then shrugs. “Alright.”</p><p>“I-” Claire sighs. “I should’ve known you’d say that.” <em> Trust Alice to be self-sacrificing about the stupidest things. </em> She sits up, pulling out of Alice’s loose grasp in order to face the other woman. “If you don’t let me at least <em> try </em> to get some of the sand out tomorrow, I’m sleeping in the front seat.”</p><p>Alice’s face remains unmoved.</p><p>“For a week.” </p><p>Her lips twitch into a frown. She tries to stare down Claire; often she wins the contest by getting the redhead to fluster and look away, but Claire stands firm, and eventually, Alice lets out her own defeated sigh. </p><p>“Fine,” she grunts. “You can preen them tomorrow night. Now go back to sleep.”</p><p>Claire grins victoriously but lets Alice pull her back into her arms. Hopefully, it’s a step towards getting Alice to take care of herself; Lord knows she’s already given Claire enough scares on scavenging missions, coming back soaked in blood (not hers, she always says, but Claire worries after that first incident). Her wings are a small step, but an important one. </p><p>She’s also really sick of the sand. Quite honestly. It’s unavoidable, she’s accepted that; she lives in it, after all, but the infernal stuff gets <em> everywhere </em>— the least she can do is minimize how much of it she sleeps on. </p><p>Alice’s hold on her is petulant—Claire can feel her breath huff at the back of her neck— but still soothing. As much as Claire found their embrace comforting, she knew that it meant much more to Alice. She’d hadn’t touched anyone for nearly five years except to kill them. To have and to hold is a luxury she’s still unused to. </p><p><em> Though it does explain the occasional possessive streak </em> , Claire thinks with a smile, letting Alice tangle their ankles together. <em> Can’t fault her for that, though. We all hold tight to what we’ve got left. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Alice keeps her promise. Claire half expected she’d have to drag the blonde back to the Hummer, but she comes willingly. Claire sets down a blanket on the sand behind the vehicle, laying out her brushes and a lantern. The Hummer is parked a bit away from the main circle, blocking most of the firelight but giving them more privacy. Alice doesn’t care for her wings and she hates people’s fascination with them. She barely lets Claire touch them; she’s always the big spoon, only spreading a wing to cover them on nights when she’s well and truly relaxed. Which is to say, it usually doesn’t happen. But here is Alice, sitting patiently at the edge of the blanket, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, wings tucked (looming) behind her. Nervous— but willing. The sight of her, the implication of her, makes warmth bloom in Claire’s chest, something dangerously close to- to <em>affection</em>. Yeah. Affection. </p><p>Claire looks away, running a hand over her brushes. She has a real feather-pick, left over from Before, and a few softer horse brushes for dust that she’s scavenged along the way. Claire’s always been a stickler for keeping her wings in good condition, though that habit had slipped closer to compulsion with time. Not uncommon, considering their circumstances— survivors clung to every reminder that they weren’t mindless, wingless monsters. </p><p>Alice doesn’t face that risk, of course, which is likely part of the reason her wings are the dirtiest pair Claire’s ever seen. </p><p>Claire gestures for the other woman to sit in front of her, and Alice scoots over, sitting cross-legged, slightly hunched. Claire looks over her wings; the feathers’ conditions range from torn and thrashed to brand new. She reaches out tentatively, pressing her hand to the feathers slowly, giving Alice the time to lean away if she wants. She doesn’t, just shivers a little under Claire’s touch. She lingers for a second, then feels along the edge of Alice’s wing, gently pulling until her right wing is fully spread in the cool desert air. </p><p>Claire’s breath catches in her throat. It’s one thing to guess, logically, that Alice’s wings must be massive, despite how she tries to tuck them away. It’s another to see all fifteen plus feet of wing, open and pliant before her. It’s so long that most of it extends beyond the edge of the Hummer, the edges of her primaries catching the firelight. The wing itself is nearly as wide as Alice is tall; even though it naturally curves away from Claire, sitting so close, it fills her vision. </p><p>“I’ve got my work cut out for me,” she sighs, smiling. </p><p>“And here I thought you knew what you were getting into,” Alice drawls. “But if it’s too much of a bother—”</p><p>Claire shoves halfheartedly at her wing; it flicks away but returns. “Be quiet. I’m not sleeping in a dust bath for another night. Besides,” she adds, picking up the rougher bristle brush, “It’s not my fault you don’t take care of them.”</p><p>She pulls the brush across her feathers, not hard, just enough to dislodge some of the dirt. Alice twitches against the contact, flinching away at the end of each stroke, though her reactions lessen slowly as she grows accustomed to the touch. The bristles are coarse, but it’s only to get the dirt out. Once Claire’s cleaned off a noticeable film, she switches to the softer brush and works the feather over more deliberately, being especially careful with the patches of newer growth. Alice’s feathers slowly work back to a soft luster, revealing a faint iridescence across the dark barring.</p><p> Claire works in silence; she’s asking a lot of Alice and she doesn’t want to overwhelm her. But as she continues, she can feel Alice start to lean into the strokes, leaning back and into the brush rather than hunching over her knees. </p><p>Claire smiles to her herself, picks up the feather pick, and sets to combing through individual feathers. The pick has two parts: the body of it is a superfine comb that has been adamantly kept unbroken. It’s slightly tapered, with the wider end forming a beak-like hook made of two curving prongs. Claire smooths and straightens bent plumes with the beak, then combs through them to realign the edges. As she works through the mass, she rearranges the feathers back into their natural positions, occasionally pulling out trapped shed. Having gone so long without preening, Alice’s feathers are now entirely disarrayed, not to mention dreadfully dry, though there’s little Claire can do to help with the last part. <em> Still, it’s a miracle she could fly at all with her feathers in this condition, </em> Claire thinks, drawing a hand over the swell of her wing and the muscles underneath. <em> Although, wings like these, she probably can just force her way through the sky. </em>She runs her hand a final time over Alice’s wing and, satisfied with its current state, puts a hand to the edge and guides it to rest once more against her back before switching to the other and pulling it open. It follows her hand without protest.</p><p>“Why do you bother?” Alice’s voice is so quiet she nearly misses it, but it startles Claire out of her rhythm all the same. “They’ll just get dirty again.”</p><p>Claire glances over at her. Her eyes are looking down, expression unreadable. “I told you before, Alice. I <em> want </em> to help you. After all,” she continues, pulling the brush up and down her feathers, “You weren’t going to do this anytime soon. So I will. I <em> am </em>.”</p><p>Alice doesn’t reply, just looks away, breathes deeply. Runs her hands over each other. Her endless energy is starting to seep through her relaxed state, and she returns to fidgeting under Claire’s ministrations, though it’s now out of restlessness rather than the foreignness of the gesture. Claire restores Alice’s left wing to a passable state before putting down the pick with a knowing smile. </p><p>“I think this is about enough for the night,” she says. “I’ve made you sit for long enough.” </p><p>Alice looks over her shoulder and grins, a little guiltily. “I’ve never been good at sitting still.”</p><p>“I can tell,” Claire laughs. “But— will you at least let me brush the undersides a bit?”</p><p>Alice sighs but turns around with a smile. An <em> actual </em> smile, Claire realizes, with barely a trace of her usual smirk. She meets Claire’s eyes, holding her gaze as she resettles, their crossed legs almost brushing. </p><p>And then she spreads her wings.</p><p>Barred cream feathers fill her vision, practically glowing in the reflecting lantern light. They sweep forward and brush past her, the tips of her wings so long they meet behind Claire, wrapping the two women in a feathery cocoon. All she can see is blinding white, around and above her, swallowing up the night, and Alice, close enough to hold, smiling honestly. Smiling at Claire. </p><p>She clutches at the brush in her hand and tries to ignore the way her heart stutters. </p><p>Alice, always one to ruin her plans, taps her knees playfully against Claire’s.</p><p>“Thank you,” she rasps, still staring at Claire. Her eyes, usually a piercing blue, are calmer, more teal in the flickering lamplight, their edges softened. Her lashes hang a little lower, no longer wide open and on constant alert. They still seem like they’re looking right into Claire’s soul. She tries to quash the warmth in her chest, as though Alice might see it and be spooked.</p><p>“Of course,” Claire breathes, looking away from Alice’s burning gaze. She raises the brush to Alice’s feathers, trying to ignore how close they are. This certainly isn’t the most they’ve ever touched; Alice has spent the last few nights curled around Claire’s back, but it’s different. Their… <em> spooning </em> in the Hummer (it seems too familiar a word, but she can’t exactly call it <em> cuddling </em> either) is a creature comfort, more of a service rendered. They don’t touch outside of it. <em> This </em>, Claire combing through Alice’s feathers and Alice watching, eyes lidded and content, is intimate. Familiar. Entirely too close for two lone survivors. The friends and lovers of the caravan might trade gossip between each other’s wings, but Claire doesn’t join in. Even LJ and Carlos occasionally swapped stories over a comb, reminiscing over the early, frantic days before the caravan. </p><p>Claire’s neither embarrassed nor a prude— it just feels like a poor replacement for what she’d lost. As close as she might be to her crew, there was still a noticeable hole in her life where Chris once was. She’d tried to look for him, in the beginning, but despite how close they were, trying to fight through the hordes of Los Angeles and reach his station would’ve been suicide. Five years later, seeing her brother seemed like a distant dream. It was something she’d just grown used to, like a thorn in her foot that had been ground smooth with time. Easier to deal with, but it still hurt. </p><p>“You’re good at this,” Alice rumbles, once again breaking her train of thought. It seemed to happen more often since Alice’s arrival— Claire wasn’t prone to introspection before. “Lots of practice?” it’s an innocent question, but the arch of her brow implies further— <em> with a certain someone? </em></p><p>“No, not really,” Claire admits. “Never found the time, or found the right person. Not for more than a few months at least. Usually, I just hung with my brother and his crew. We were pretty close.” she glances up. “How about you?”</p><p>Alice’s smile turns wry. “I was such a flirt. Out and around town whenever I could, which is difficult when you work underground and have a fake husband as cover, but, ah,” she lets out a little laugh. “We both managed.”</p><p>“You had a <em> fake husband? </em>”</p><p>“I worked security for Umbrella. A hazard of the occupation, you could say.” The word sends chills down her spine just at the mention, but— Alice? Working <em> at Umbrella </em>? She forces her hands to keep moving as Alice continues. “Didn’t ask enough questions before I started, I guess. By the time I realized the truth, I was under too many contracts to do anything.” she lapses into silence, eyes distant. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Claire offers. “I can’t imagine being there right at the outbreak.”</p><p>“You don’t know the half of it,” Alice replies. Her tone doesn’t invite further inquiry though, so Claire doesn’t press. Instead, she changes directions, talking to try and distract Alice from the memories undoubtedly resurfacing in her mind.</p><p>“My brother was transferred to Los Angeles when this started,” she starts. “He was in the military— they stationed his squad at the prison to help the resistance effort. The last I heard from him was about the transfer notice. I don’t know where he is now.” </p><p>“You didn’t look for him?”</p><p>“Oh, I <em> tried </em>, but California was a sea of undead. Got two weeks in from Oregon before realizing it was a suicide mission.”</p><p>Alice pauses, considering. “I’m not one to give anyone false hope, but if he’s got half your fire, then I’d say he has a fighting chance.”</p><p>Claire smiles, a little bitterly. “I hope so.”</p><p>“You’ve kept an entire caravan going for <em> five years </em> . If your brother can’t keep himself <em> alive, </em>then you’re probably not related.”</p><p>“I’m flattered,” Claire laughs. “But really, it runs itself.”</p><p>“And again, I’m a flirt,” says Alice, continuing before Claire can choke on the words. “But these people needed a leader, and that’s not an easy burden to bear.”</p><p>Claire feels her cheeks heat at the earnest complement. “Someone had to,” she deflects. “Though speaking of burdens, I <em> definitely </em> pulled ten pounds of sand out of your wings tonight.” </p><p>Alice rolls her eyes but takes the jab without protest. She raises her wings, feathers flowing through Claire’s fingers as Alice unwraps her wings from around the two women and spreads them out to her sides. Huge and angelic, she rolls them experimentally before pulling them against her back. They’re so large that they hang over her shoulders, framing her face with faded brown. </p><p>As Claire’s world expands beyond Alice’s wings, Claire suddenly, very clearly realizes just how close they’ve gotten. Their knees are a hair's breadth apart, their crossed legs boxing the lantern in between them. Alice is leaned forward, their faces not even a foot away from each other. </p><p>“They do feel much better,” Alice admits. “I’d gotten so used to the grit, I didn’t notice it until it was gone.” </p><p>“You need to take better care of them,” Claire says sternly. “And don’t give me any bullshit about feathers replacing themselves, you’ve got to respect your wings,” she continues, cutting off a sarcastic rebuttal. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself in general.”</p><p>“Jesus, you’re not my mother. Fine, I’ll brush them once in a while,” Alice groans. “Don’t you ever get tired of having to take care of all of us? I mean, if you died, nobody would know what to do without you.”</p><p>“I’m sure they’d manage. Don’t be so morbid.”</p><p>Alice sighs. “Do you <em> ever </em>take a break?” she’s close enough that Claire can see flecks of green amidst the bright teal of her eyes.</p><p>“I— Sure I do.” she leans back, turning to her brushes to avoid meeting Alice’s gaze. “There’s just— not a lot of time to.”</p><p>Alice purses her lips, her eyebrows furrowing oddly. At length, she sighs and climbs to her feet, shaking her wings out again for good measure. Claire scoops up her brushes and follows.</p><p>“Would you get the blanket?” she asks, leaning to pick up the lantern with her other hand, but Alice beats her to it, snatching the handle from under her. Claire lurches up to follow, hand snapping forward in chase, but Alice holds it just out of reach, Claire’s fingers brushing only the cool skin of Alice’s forearm instead of the metal lantern. The movement brings her right up against Alice, her chest pressed into the other woman and their noses nearly touching.</p><p>Claire freezes, unable to go forward or back.</p><p>“You deserve a break, Claire,” Alice whispers. Her breath ghosts warmly across Claire’s cheeks. The name sounds so lovely in her voice.</p><p>Claire wants to answer, but she can’t. She can’t even feel her tongue; the only sensations in her mind are the starbursts where her fingertips touch Alice, the burning in her chest where they press together. </p><p>“Claire,” Alice nudges again, softly. Belatedly Claire realizes she’s put down the lantern; now Alice is holding her hand instead, fingers gentle around her wrist as she pulls their arms to their sides. </p><p>“I-” she wets her lips; Alice’s eyes follow, and the blaze in her chest begins to crawl up her neck. </p><p>“I’ll only ask one more thing of you,” Alice rasps. “Just tell me what you want, Claire. Then you can relax.”</p><p>
  <em> Kiss me. Just kiss me, dammit! </em>
</p><p>The words won’t leave her lips. Alice doesn’t move, eyes staring deep into Claire’s. She’d thought to herself so often that Alice must be able to see into her soul, and yet here she was, <em> screaming </em>in her own mind, and Alice couldn’t seem to hear it.</p><p>
  <em> Kiss me! Why do I have to say it? Can’t you see? </em>
</p><p>Claire can’t move. Alice’s face falls, ever so slightly, before she catches it. Her fingers start to loosen from Claire’s wrist. “If you don’t-”</p><p>
  <em> No- </em>
</p><p>“Wait!” she gasps, mouth painfully dry. She twists her hand around and grabs Alice’s, presses them palm-to-palm and twines their fingers together in a fierce grip. “I-”</p><p>An all-too-familiar drawl interrupts her. “Hey Claire! Perimeter’s up if you wanna go check-” Carlos stops in his tracks at the edge of the Hummer. “Oh. Uh, am I interrupting?”</p><p>Alice drops her hand immediately, practically tearing it out of Claire’s grasp. Her face is unreadable as she turns sharply on her heels and stalks away. </p><p>“I’m going on a patrol,” she calls back, voice low. “Don’t wait up for me.” Her wings unfurl and with a few heavy beats, bear her up and into the sky, the midnight desert swallowing her into darkness. </p><p>Claire and Carlos stand in numb silence for a moment, staring into the dark.</p><p>“Looks like we won’t need that perimeter,” Claire grunts. “She’ll be out all night.”</p><p>“I- sorry,” Carlos says, still stunned by Alice’s hasty exit. “I didn’t mean-”</p><p>“It’s fine.” <em> It’s not </em>. “I’ll go check in with Mikey. Good night.”</p><p>Her palm stings in the cool night air. She tucks her hands under her arms, unable to warm back up, and regrets ever saving Carlos’s ass in Utah. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Damn it. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It’s okay Claire, you’ll get another chance; Alice will come back!<br/>I think.<br/>Hoping to update tuesdays, but may change. See yall next week uwu</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. slowdance / tango</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is shorter than I expected, but hopefully, it's sweet enough to make up for it (◕ㅅ◕✿)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She has no idea how it had happened. Alice had barely spoken to her for the last two days, hardly touched her last night— she didn’t even <em> come in </em> on the night Carlos interrupted them. That had, of course, rather grated on Claire; although she didn’t want to scare Alice off further with emotional overtures, she couldn’t stand the tiptoeing around each other. Alice had managed to escape the first day on a scavenging trip, but today there was absolutely nothing nearby to check out, so she’d been forced to lurk around the camp, avoiding Claire. </p><p>So, naturally, Claire had finally gone and cornered Alice with the intent of— of apologizing or <em> something </em> for the other night— she’d even brought the last cigarette as a gift, consolation prize, whatever— and then Alice had instead taken her by the hand and led her back to the Hummer. And <em> now </em>, somehow, Alice has her pinned without laying a finger on her, one hand resting on her own hip, the other just above Claire’s shoulder, palm flat against the warm metal of the Hummer. Claire can feel the edges start to bite into her wings and the backs of her thighs, pressed into the vehicle as she is, but Alice’s arm is like a brand at her neck, daring her to move. Her gaze is piercing, inspecting every inch of Claire’s slowly reddening face. Her grin turns to a smirk when she spots the pink tip of Claire’s tongue dart out to wet her lips. </p><p>“Can I ask you something?” Alice rasps, voice sinfully rough. </p><p>She <em> must </em> be doing that on purpose. It always catches her off-guard; she can barely even remember her plan to apologize. What does Alice want to ask her, <em> here </em>, pinned to the Hummer not even a hundred feet from camp? </p><p>“Sure.” Her heart is beating so fast she’s sure Alice can hear it. Her mouth is already dry, but if Alice catches her licking her lips again she thinks she’ll combust. Alice just smirks, leaning closer until they’re cheek-to-cheek, close enough that they touch when Claire breathes in. </p><p>“Do you know what mantling is?” and <em> fuck </em> if her lips aren’t <em> just </em>brushing across Claire’s ear. </p><p>Why is she saying it like <em> that? </em></p><p>“No,” Claire breathes. “Care to enlighten me?” </p><p>“I’d love to.” Alice pulls back a little and Claire sucks in a relieved breath, but Alice’s other hand finds a place on the Hummer near her waist, taking the air right back out of her. She tenses, trapped between Alice’s arms, trying to lean away from them as though she’ll be burned by the touch. </p><p>“Sometimes,” Alice begins, eyes gleaming, “after the hunt, hawks will spread their wings to hide their prey.”</p><p>It’s an obvious—if odd—hook, but Claire bites anyway. She couldn’t keep running from this if she tried.</p><p>“And why do they need to hide things, Alice?”</p><p>Alice raises an eyebrow as if to say, <em> what, not going to guess? </em> but returns to her playful grin. </p><p>“Why <em> Claire, </em> ” she purrs, leaning impossibly closer, “so that nobody will interrupt them while they <em> eat </em>.” </p><p>She’s so close—their lips brush and Claire’s breath hitches in her throat and Alice’s wings snap open around them, white and blinding, filling her vision until there’s nothing but Alice, all she can see is <em> Alice, mantling </em> over her —as she takes Claire’s bottom lip in her teeth and <em> squeezes </em>. </p><p>She barely has time to meet Claire’s eyes, her gaze dripping with victorious heat before Claire bites back, pressing against Alice and crushing their lips together. She grabs two handfuls of Alice’s shirt; Alice moves one hand to grip Claire’s waist as the other slides into her auburn hair. </p><p>The kiss is— well, it’s good, no, <em> great </em> — but it’s not tender. Claire has dreamed, has <em> fantasized </em>, about kissing this perfect stranger, yet the reality of the situation is far from ideal. Kissing in the desert is a trial of how long chapped can lips last before they split. And Alice, damn impeccable Alice, has a leg up on her even in this. Her mouth is soft against Claire’s, making the rough edges of her own lips seem even sharper by contrast. Alice doesn’t seem to care; she kisses her fiercely and deliberately, driving Claire higher and higher, keeping their lips locked and their bodies pressed tight together. When Claire manages to pull back and gasp in a breath, Alice darts forward and nips at her, drawing Claire back against her. It’s sweet torture; it’s all Claire can do just to drink her in, to try to take all she can get before it is gone. Alice is just as hungry, and Claire gives as good as she gets until a sharp pain in her lip cuts through the haze. </p><p>Claire’s cheeks heat for an entirely new reason as embarrassment courses through her, and she pushes Alice away to catch her breath. She runs her tongue over her lip; already swollen from Alice’s ministrations and with a large split on the right side. Copper tang seeps over her gums. </p><p>“You okay?” Alice asks, heat instantly fading to concern. “Did I hurt-”</p><p>“No! No, you didn’t,” Claire huffs, laughing breathily. “God, Alice, no.” She squeezes the fabric between her fingers, then moves to frame Alice’s face. It fits perfectly within her palms. “I think I would have exploded if you waited any longer.”</p><p>Alice chuckles, rubbing circles on her hip with her thumb. It’s maddeningly distracting, but the touch is grounding. “Are you alright then?”</p><p>“I’m fine, I just-” she brings a hand to her lip, feeling the split. “The desert hasn’t done me any favors.” she laughs. “I’m surprised I lasted this long, with the way you kiss. And <em> bite </em>.”</p><p>Alice rolls her eyes, smiling as she leans in to look closer. The hand at Claire’s neck comes around to hold her chin and jaw, tilting it up slightly. Her thumb slides gently over Claire’s lip and Claire cannot keep her tongue from darting out to touch Alice’s calloused fingertip. Alice smirks viciously and Claire blushes in tandem, but Alice allows her the small mercy of not pressing the matter and leans back.  </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she rasps with a guilty grin. “I’d offer you chapstick, but I think it was all used up years ago.”</p><p>Claire snorts. “Chapstick goes before cigarettes do? Sure.” </p><p>Alice chuckles again, but her mirth doesn't last long. Her grip tightens on Claire’s waist, then relaxes. “I should have asked,” she whispers. Her wings shiver and drop, taking the temporary shade with them and forcing Claire to squint in the light of the setting sun. </p><p>Claire shakes her head. “I should’ve told you earlier. It was free to take.”</p><p>Alice scoffs. “If that was true, Carlos or Mikey would be well in possession of it by now.”</p><p>“I don’t <em> want </em> Carlos or Mikey.” She turns Alice’s face to meet her eyes. “I want <em>you</em>. If you’ll have me.”</p><p>Alice looks away, or at least tries to, but Claire holds her firm. The sunset is bright enough that, even silhouetted, she can see the rising sheen in Alice’s eyes. </p><p>“Stay with me, Alice,” she breathes. “You don’t have to be alone.” Alice closes her eyes, ignores the small trail being blazed down her cheek.  </p><p>“<em>I</em> don’t want to be alone,” Claire whispers. Alice sighs softly at that and wraps her arms around Claire, burying her hands in warm chocolate feathers, and presses her to her chest. They hold each other in silence for a long minute, silent save their breathing and the soft slide of hands over fabric and feather.</p><p>“I will try,” Alice eventually says. “I would have you, and I would stay. I can’t promise, but I will try.”</p><p>Claire buries her smile in Alice’s chest. “That’s all I ask.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>good job lesbians, I knew you two could do it!</p><p>Anyways, thanks for stoppin' by! I know this was brief, but next week is going to be a real treat, don't y'all worry  _(┐「ε;)_❤</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. tender, if you say so</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>&gt;;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claire leaves dinner early, citing poor sleep the night before. “I was up late,” she explains to the outcries of her crew. “I’m still thinking about Alaska.”</p>
<p>She had indeed been thinking about the journey, and Alice would know; after all, she’d been the one planting open-mouthed distractions on Claire’s neck while the redhead tried to be a responsible caravan leader. </p>
<p>Emphasis on <em> tried </em>. </p>
<p>Still, if the look Claire shoots her over the fire is any indication, Claire has no intentions of being a good leader tonight. Perhaps, if Alice was lucky, even a <em> bad </em> one. </p>
<p>Alice waits a few minutes to be polite, licks the last of the juice from her peach can before making her own excuses. She takes her time getting back to the Hummer— just enough that Claire will start to wonder, start to sweat. When she finally opens the door, the relief that flits ever so briefly over Claire’s face tells her she timed it perfectly. Alice grins and pulls her into a hug mouth-first.</p>
<p>It’s not a <em> good </em> habit, not <em> healthy </em>, this… neediness. She feels weak, feels a little cruel to play these games, but they make Claire clutch her that much tighter, just enough to make Alice feel held. Feel wanted. </p>
<p>Of course, Alice isn’t here just to use up all of Claire’s affection before moving on; even though Alice can hardly bear to leave her alone, Alice is the one pouring herself out. Claire scarcely gets a touch in otherwise. It’s always Alice kissing, Alice touching, Alice on her knees worshipping. Alice, trying to earn Claire’s attention, to justify why the redhead kisses her back every night. For every late-night minute that Claire watches Alice (pretend to) sleep, Alice spends twice as many. She still needs sleep, of course, but the virus sustains her beyond humanity; she needs only a handful of hours each day. The rest she spends wrapped, in every sense of the word, around Claire. She’s practically memorized every feather, every strand of hair. She knows the cadence of her breathing, how to tell if it’s a bad dream or a good one— or a <em> very good </em> one. </p>
<p>Alice would admit to feeling like a stalker if she wasn’t convinced that this peace would not last. Somehow, like always, Claire would be torn away and Alice would survive another goddamn day with only memories to keep. The longer she stays, the more it weighs on her; the price of looking, of <em> touching </em> , keeps rising. But it just feels so damn <em> good </em> ; she can’t help herself. Every sigh and moan she drags out of Claire quiets her anxiety, but it’s the look afterward that Alice truly craves. The comfort, the absolute <em> bliss </em>in Claire’s eyes as they whisper quietly until Claire finally turns around and Alice tucks her into her arms to hold onto a little longer. </p>
<p>Claire speaks, freeing her from her spiraling thoughts. “You alright?” she asks, concern pinching at her face. </p>
<p>Alice hadn’t even noticed the slowing of their passion; distantly, she realizes her arms have come down from around Claire to merely hold her thighs where she sits straddling Alice’s lap.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Alice replies, blinking. “Just got caught up in my thoughts.” She brings her hands up, fingertips dancing up under Claire’s shirt as an apology. </p>
<p>Claire sighs into the touch but stops her with a hand on her arm. “What were you thinking about?”</p>
<p>“Nothing important.”</p>
<p>“If you don’t want to do this tonight-”</p>
<p>“I do!” Alice interrupts. “God, it’s torture having to keep my hands off you when we’re not alone.” She punctuates this with her trademark grin as reassurance, but her natural charm doesn’t seem to be working on Claire tonight; her frown doesn’t budge. </p>
<p>“Tell me what you were thinking about,” Claire repeats, resting her hands on Alice’s shoulders. She focuses on the sensation, trying to ground herself in the moment and not become wrapped up in her thoughts. </p>
<p>“I…” <em> where to start? </em>  “Remember when you tried to give me a hickey?”</p>
<p>“If this is your idea of changing the subject, it’s not working.”</p>
<p>“No, really. Do you?”</p>
<p>Claire sighs but plays along. “Sure, I do. I took the only chance I got and it was still gone within an hour.”</p>
<p>“And yet when <em> I </em> give you hickeys, they <em> last. </em> ” Alice had never seen anything prettier in her life than the marks of her own making on Claire’s chest. It’d taken every ounce of willpower she had to resist staking her claim on Claire’s entire neck; it’d be instantly damning, considering the neckline of her shirt. As much as Alice wanted to scream to the world that Claire was <em> hers, damn it, </em> to leave a mark clear for all to see, she’d never dare embarrass her like that. But by <em> god </em>, did she want to.</p>
<p>“It’s just… the people I meet, they—” she sighs. <em> Don’t be morbid </em> . “Sometimes it seems like no matter what I do, they don’t last much longer than a bruise.” she can feel her fingers start to tighten around Claire’s hips and forces herself to relax. “I keep <em> losing </em> people. I feel like I’m just waiting for the day that something happens to the caravan and to <em> you </em> , and eventually, all of this will also fade.” She takes a hand off of Claire, drags it down her face. “God, sometimes it feels like <em> everything’s </em> slipping away. There are days I can barely remember what I was like Before. And— and I don’t know if it's me or if it’s the <em> virus </em> , or whether it will get worse and I’ll forget <em> you </em> or if I’ll go- I’ll lose control or—”</p>
<p> Her cheeks are wet. She can feel it drip slowly onto her lap. She raises her hand back to her face and finds it shaking. <em> She’s </em> shaking. Trembling. Crying <em> . </em></p>
<p>“Fuck.” She paws roughly at her face, trying to erase any trace of the hot tears inching down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Let’s just- I’ll-”</p>
<p>“Alice.” strong hands brace themselves on her cheeks, thumbs gently wiping across. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to-”</p>
<p>Claire shushes her, gentle but firm. “You can cry, Alice. It’s okay.”</p>
<p>How the hell had she managed to convince this woman to give her more than a spare glance? The one blessing the universe had seen fit to grant her, and yet Alice was still unworthy of it, no matter how much of herself she tried to give in return. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to fix me, Claire,” she croaks. Her voice is so hoarse— when was the last time she’d gotten so choked up? “You don’t have to keep picking these pieces up again.”</p>
<p>“Alice.” Now Claire was angry. Not fiery, not loud; cold, smooth anger. Here came the other foot, the final chapter of this blissful interlude. “I told you before, I <em>want</em> to. This isn’t <em>pity</em>, this isn’t <em>payment</em>, it’s-” she sighs in frustration, the words tripping on her tongue. “I care about you, Alice. I <em>want </em>to spend time with you, I <em>want </em>to help you, I <em>want</em> <em>you</em>. I’m not leaving anytime soon. I’m not going to abandon you. And I can’t promise anything about our future, but you are <em>human</em>, and the virus cannot take anything more from you than you let it. It certainly won’t take me.”</p>
<p>Alice sits in stunned silence. Claire’s words are— they’re everything Alice craves and it <em> hurts </em> , each sentence slipping knife-hot between her ribs. She wants to say something, anything; to protest that the virus really <em> was </em> dangerous, that <em> she </em> was dangerous, and Claire was getting into more than she knew. But when she opens her mouth, all that comes out is a harsh, strangled sob. </p>
<p>The rest of her resolve crumbles instantly and she buries her head in Claire’s shoulder, clutches at her thin shirt, and tries not to choke on her own throat. Her wings come down a second later, hitting the floor of the trunk with a heavy <em> thud </em> and setting the Hummer rocking slightly.</p>
<p>Claire holds her, just <em> holds </em> her, doesn’t try to whisper comforts or reassure her that everything was fine. Alice is glad of it. Spencer and Carlos had grabbed and clutched; they’d put it upon themselves to soothe her worries away. It had been smothering. Claire just— lets her pour it out. Doesn’t try to force it back in, doesn’t stem the tide; instead, she’s an anchor against the wave, and Alice clings to her gratefully. They stay like that for a long while, wrapped in each other as Alice’s body wrings every last tear it can from her. When Alice’s shoulders finally stop shaking and her breathing evens out, Claire slips off her lap, resettles at her side, and tucks Alice firmly under her chin. Her wings automatically open to surround them, adding to the privacy of the moment. </p>
<p>“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, voice soft. </p>
<p>Alice shakes her head against Claire’s collarbone. She doesn’t trust herself to hold it together after her spectacular breakdown.</p>
<p>Claire hums in reply, contemplative. It rumbles through her chest, vibrating through Alice’s form, curled together as they are. She’s never actually heard Claire hum a full tune; idly wonders if the redhead ever sang. She thinks it would be nice; she has such a beautiful voice. </p>
<p>A sudden pressure lands on the back of her neck. She tenses instantly; it slides down her neck and over her shoulders before Alice recognizes it as Claire’s hand. Claire strokes her neck and back gently, a soft, repetitive motion. It immediately reminds Alice of the night Claire had preened her and she sighs into the contact. It’s still novel to her, having such casual touch back, especially with her wings; even if she hadn’t been ostracised for them these last five years, the scant time she remembered from the Umbrella labs was enough to make her defensive. But Claire is so <em> gentle </em> and <em> trusting </em>; Alice would let Claire pluck her raw just to feel her touch. </p>
<p>Claire never <em> would </em> , of course, but the fact of the matter is that Alice is in deep, deeper than she should be and with <em> no </em> intention of pulling back. It’s already everything she can do to try and maintain some semblance of distance during the day when they’re not alone; her fingers constantly ache to touch the redhead and she gets antsy when Claire’s out of her sight. </p>
<p>But Claire’s here now, and the desperate need is sated. Oblivious to her addictive nature, she continues to stroke her back and Alice <em> sinks </em> into her, propping her jaw in the crook of Claire’s neck to keep from slipping away. The touch is soothing, settling into a rhythm in tune with their breathing. Then Claire’s hand reaches a bit lower, exploring the muscles of Alice’s wing, and Alice briefly wonders where they’re going before Claire <em> digs </em>her fingers into the muscle of Alice’s shoulders. </p>
<p>Pleasure and pain alike wash over her in a heady mixture; she lets out a sharp breath as they sweep through her. Claire readjusts, then presses at her wings again. Something deep in her muscles <em> shifts </em> and a rich, relieving ache ripples over her spine. A shuddering moan slips from her lips before she can stop it. Claire immediately pauses.</p>
<p>“You like that?” There’s a knowing smirk in her tone. She emphasizes it by kneading hard at Alice’s shoulders, dragging another low, rumbling affirmation out of her.</p>
<p>“<em> Yes </em> ,” Alice groans, burying her face further into Claire’s neck to muffle herself. Claire keeps kneading at her; a deep-tissue massage. Every roll of her palm and flex of her fingers feels like it’s breaking off a layer of crusty and dried clay, revealing newer, more supple material underneath. Not exactly uncomfortable, but <em> deliciously </em> painful; Claire’s working <em> five years </em> of tension and stress out of her overburdened shoulders, pressing it out of her flesh like honey from the comb. </p>
<p>“Hold on a moment,” Claire murmurs into her ear. </p>
<p>“Mmph?” she hardly hears the words; suddenly Claire’s leaving her, lowering her to the floor so she’s laying on her stomach. A split second of panic stabs through her blissful state and she tries to follow, reaching out and grasping at Claire’s hand, but her arms feel boneless, and she can’t catch Claire before she moves out of reach.</p>
<p>“Claire? What are you-?”</p>
<p>“Shhh.”</p>
<p>Her wings are brushed aside before a familiar weight climbs on top of her, straddling her legs just behind her rear. </p>
<p>“I couldn’t reach your shoulders,” Claire explains, setting her hands on Alice and near-instantaneously turning her insides to jelly. She works over Alice’s shoulders, pulling tension and begrudging groans alike out of her. Alice melts into the trunk of the Hummer, head devoid of thoughts besides the encompassing sensations at her back. Claire works out a particularly stubborn knot from her back and Alice has to bite back another moan of relief. </p>
<p>“Where did you learn to <em> do </em> this?” she mumbles, words slurring in her relaxed haze. </p>
<p>“I come from a big-winged family,” Claire replies. “We get cramps easily if we’re not careful, so we all learn how to help each other with tension.” she chuckles a little. “Honestly, it seems like half the time I spent with Chris was fixing whatever muscle he’d strained that week. So I got pretty good at this.” </p>
<p>“<em> Fuck, </em> yeah, you <em> are. </em> ” She means to say it under her breath but she hears Claire snort in amusement behind her. Another thought of <em> How the hell did I manage to get someone like you? </em> crosses her mind, but she keeps it to herself. She’s had enough self-loathing for the night. Besides, if Claire’s decided to make caring for Alice’s wings her personal project, Alice certainly isn’t complaining. She <em> can’t </em>really; she’s putty in Claire’s hands and she can barely feel her face anymore.</p>
<p>“Can you roll over for me?”</p>
<p>Alice groans in complaint. “I’m comfortable.”</p>
<p>“It’ll be worth it, I promise.” Claire shifts off of her, their legs sliding over each other.</p>
<p>Alice makes another annoyed noise before reluctantly pushing herself onto her hands and knees. She shuffles over a few steps before dipping her shoulder and laying down into it, rolling over the mass of her left wing and coming to rest on her back. She shifts around for a minute, adjusting her wings beneath her. Claire watches, expectant but unhurried.</p>
<p>Finally comfortable, Alice holds up her hands and wiggles them, a lackluster celebration. “Ta-da. Now what?”</p>
<p>Claire climbs back onto her lap, careful of her feathers, and straddles her once again. She takes hold of Alice’s wrists and lowers them down to the floor by her shoulders, ending up cushioned on her wings.</p>
<p>“Now,” Claire says, an odd glint in her eye, “you’re going to lay there and relax <em> without touching </em>, and I’m going to eat you out like a quarter-pounder.”</p>
<p>Alice feels a bolt of liquid heat race straight down her spine a second before she hears the loud <em> thwack </em> of her wings snapping out and smacking against the walls of the Hummer. </p>
<p>It startles them both; Claire jumps in her lap. </p>
<p>“Are you okay?” she blurts, wide-eyed.</p>
<p>Alice <em> yanks </em>her wings back underneath her. “I’m fine.”  </p>
<p>Claire’s eyes instantly narrow.</p>
<p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p>
<p>“Uh-huh.” she’s nowhere near convinced. </p>
<p>“I just heard something,” Alice sputters. “Outside.”</p>
<p>“Mmm, sure you did.” Claire leans back to regard her a moment, considering. Then she raises a hand to her shirt and pulls it off in a single, fluid movement, revealing the creamy skin and hickey-covered breasts beneath. </p>
<p>Alice’s wings snap open a second time with a quieter but no less damning <em> thump </em>. </p>
<p>Claire smirks and Alice feels her cheeks start to burn for the first time in a while. Forget the virus; Claire was <em> absolutely </em> going to be the death of her.</p>
<p>“Is there any way I can convince you I heard something again?” Alice squeaks.  </p>
<p>Claire smiles wickedly. “What do you think?” </p>
<p>“Yes?” she grins weakly. </p>
<p>Claire just smirks in reply and leans down until her breasts are pressed against Alice. Her shirt’s so thin she can practically feel Claire’s nipples through it, and it sends another lick of heat right through her. She can’t decide which to look at: Claire’s foxish expression or the skin she’s been itching to get her mouth on all day. After a moment, she decides to try her luck at getting another taste of the redhead. She pushes up against Claire; even if her earlier ministrations had worked Alice’s muscles into a boneless bliss, Alice could still easily overpower her. As soon as she begins to press back, however, Claire holds her down with surprising strength.</p>
<p>“Nuh-uh,” she tuts. “I said no touching.” </p>
<p>Alice flexes her arms within Claire’s grip, weighing the benefits of forcibly flipping them over. Claire squeezes her wrists in warning.</p>
<p>“I want to touch you, Alice,” she says, stern but earnest, and <em> definitely </em> a little turned on. Alice can just begin to smell it at the edge of her heightened senses— it’s a scent she’s keenly attuned to. </p>
<p>“Had enough of my hands on you?” maybe she <em> had </em> been a bit... <em> overenthusiastic... </em>in her appreciation of the redhead over the past week. She’d simply been taking thorough advantage of the change in their relationship after their sunset confession. </p>
<p>Claire snorts. “Mm, <em> no </em> , I’m definitely <em> not </em> tired of your attention.” Alice curbs a self-satisfied smile at that. “But,” Claire continues, “I <em> am </em> tired of not getting in <em> anything </em>edgewise.” She gives Alice’s arms a final squeeze before leaning back, drawing her hands along Alice’s sides until they come to rest on her waist. “So now you’re going to sit still and let me return the favor.”</p>
<p>Alice doesn’t reply immediately, a little caught up in staring at the magnificent woman sitting in her lap. She’s run her tongue over every inch of Claire’s chest and neck this past week, but it’s a sight that still takes her breath away every time she sees it. Harsh apocalypse living as well as the virus’s influence had stripped most of the fat and excess flesh from her own body, leaving her toned but flat, and gangly like an adolescent boy. Claire had faced her own fair share of wasting away, but she’d been left with enough to soften her curves and keep a feminine figure; plenty enough to hold, much to run one’s teeth over, and <em> quite </em> a bit to stare at. Alice doesn’t know how the hell she’s going to keep her hands to herself, but fuck it, who’s she to deny a beautiful woman looking at her like <em> that </em> and <em> asking </em>to fuck her senseless?</p>
<p>“Alright,” she rasps. There’s not much else to say, at least, nothing that wouldn’t derail the mood, like blurting out <em> can you please pin me again, </em> or <em> if you breathe a word about my wings I’ll make you regret it </em>. </p>
<p>Claire grins, a delicate mix of adoring and <em> lecherous, </em> and sets her teeth on Alice’s neck, sucking hard enough Alice thinks the bruise might just last longer than an hour. Her hands slide around to her back, working open the clasps that hold Alice’s shirt closed beneath the wing-slits. She tugs it up without hesitation, Alice's arms following as it pulls over her head before dutifully returning her hands to the floor. Her torso is now entirely bare— she was far too flat-chested to justify keeping a bra. Claire licks a stripe down to her breasts and pauses, admiring their subtle swell. </p>
<p>Alice isn’t self conscious; perhaps a little terrified of her own flesh, but unconcerned with physical appearances. Still, when Claire’s hand palms her breast and her head bends to kiss the other almost reverently, it’s the first time since Before that Alice has felt a shred of comfort, let alone <em> delight </em>in her body. </p>
<p>Then Claire opens her mouth and licks at her already-hard nipple and Alice gasps, shaking with the effort of keeping her wings held in. Her hypersensitivity was a convenient asset in the field, but here in the Hummer it’s a goddamn <em> curse </em>; each swipe of Claire’s tongue and every roll of her thumb sends Alice reeling, biting her lip to keep her noises to herself. </p>
<p>Claire pulls back from her breast, her warm breath scalding on the wet skin, and moves back up to capture Alice’s lips in a heated kiss. She rolls Alice’s nipple again and Alice has to break their liplock to stifle the sound in her throat. </p>
<p>Claire pulls her lower lip between her teeth and bites in reprimand. “I want to hear you, Alice,” she breathes. Claire’s hand traces down her toned stomach and Alice shudders beneath her. </p>
<p>“We might wake up the camp,” Alice protests. She was loud even Before; she has no idea how her current sensitivity will change that. </p>
<p>“And?” Claire hums, clearly unconcerned. “What do you think everyone else does as soon as they’ve got the privacy and the energy? Besides, we’re parked a bit away.”</p>
<p>Alice opens her mouth to make a sarcastic retaliation, but then Claire cups her through her shorts, <em> hard </em> , and whatever she might’ve said is cut off by a loud, unceremonious <em> moan </em>. </p>
<p>“You were saying?” Claire grins against her lips; Alice glares back at her and clenches her hands shut to keep from flipping them over and wrestling back control. <em> Relax. </em> </p>
<p>She gets one bruising kiss out of Claire before the redhead pulls away to work on her belt buckles. Her holsters are already off, so Claire doesn’t have to contend with them, but even so, she’s got plenty of rigging left around her waist. Claire huffs impatiently, glancing up periodically at Alice, but she makes no move to help. <em> No touching, remember? </em> </p>
<p>When her shorts finally loosen around her hips, Claire grins victoriously and yanks them off of her legs like they owed the redhead money. The stockings underneath give her pause, however. Claire glares at them, cursing under her breath before bending to the task of unhooking them from the garter strap and sliding these too down her legs. With those out of the way, all that separates Claire from the heat between her legs is her underwear: a pair of thin, light blue boxers. Claire fingers the waistband thoughtfully; Alice is pretty sure she’s soaked through them already. The scent of their combined arousal is intoxicating, almost cloying, and yet Alice is choking not on the smell but rather on the pure <em> need </em> coursing through her. Every touch and caress sends sparks racing through her, compounding the pressure building between her legs. It feels so weird, almost <em> wrong </em> to let Claire touch her directly, skin to skin and without anything between to protect her, and yet at the same time, it’s <em> unbelievably </em>good.</p>
<p>Claire hooks her fingers into the elastic of her boxers and drags them down a tantalizing half-inch before pausing; Alice nearly <em> growls </em>at her.</p>
<p>“May I?” Claire asks, pupils blown wide but looking so <em> earnestly </em> at Alice it makes her heart jump in her chest. Alice would let Claire do anything to her in that moment, no hesitation, and yet Claire cared enough to <em> ask </em>. She nods jerkily, then realizes Claire probably wants a little more from her, so she chokes out a “yes”.</p>
<p>She tries not to buck into Claire’s hands as she pulls the fabric over her legs, fingernails catching teasingly on her ankles before she flicks the offending material towards the dashboard. It lands on the rearview mirror and hangs there like a flag. Alice, however, doesn’t give a <em> shit </em> because Claire’s mouth is nearly <em> on </em> her, kissing and nibbling her way up Alice’s thighs, her touch electric, sparks acting across her skin. Finally she noses into the tangle of dark curls at Alice’s core and Alice’s wings finally shudder open, unable to handle the strain of holding back any longer. </p>
<p>“<em> Fuck </em> ,” she breathes; Claire smiles against her and <em> fucking hell </em> she can feel <em> that </em> too. </p>
<p>Claire spreads her legs further and settles in between them, her wings bracketed by Alice’s knees. She gives Alice one last, heated look before turning her focus back down. </p>
<p>Claire presses a featherlight kiss to Alice’s clit and it’s such an absurdly tender, almost <em> chaste </em> touch compared to the electric energy in the air that it nearly brings tears to her eyes. A new wave of adoration rises and sits heavy in her throat, threatening to take her out of the moment, but she doesn’t have to worry; Claire opens her mouth and sticks her tongue <em> straight </em> into Alice, and any previous thoughts are obliterated by the sudden, overwhelming burst of pleasure. She gasps, <em> hard, </em> a hand instinctively reaching down to Claire’s hair, anchoring herself against the redhead. </p>
<p>“That okay?” Claire asks, raising up to look at her.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Alice chokes out. “Just— I’m a lot more— sensitive, now.”  </p>
<p>“I’ll be gentle.”</p>
<p>Alice wants to tell her <em> please don’t, </em> but Claire’s probably right. She hasn’t really touched herself since her infection; there was neither the time nor the need, and the first opportunity she’d finally had enough of both to try, she was so painfully sensitive that she had to stop almost immediately. It’s been literal years since then; she just hopes she’s gotten used to her senses enough that she can handle this.</p>
<p>Claire presses her mouth back to Alice’s core, giving her a second to prepare before she unfurls her tongue again, curling it in and out of Alice in a slow rhythm. It’s still enough to make her gasp softly each time. Claire’s hand dances up her thigh; her thumb strokes at Alice’s clit and a goddamn <em> mewl </em> rips itself out of her throat. Her cheeks instantly burn, mortified. </p>
<p>Claire smiles against her again but continues, trying to coax more sounds out of Alice. She knows Claire had literally <em> asked </em> to hear her, but the moans in her throat are so <em> needy </em> that, frankly, she’s a bit embarrassed to voice them. She can only blame so much of her reactions on the virus’s influence; past that, it really just has been <em> so long </em> since she’s been touched— been wanted, been <em> worshipped </em> like this. </p>
<p>And Claire— fuck, she’s <em> good </em> ; when she moves her tongue a different way, grinds the flat of it against her clit to drag a new, deeper moan from Alice, she immediately chases the sound, rewarding her for each sigh and gasp that slip past her lips. Claire works her until she’s shaking, <em> dripping </em> wet, so much so that despite Claire’s focused attention, she can feel her jaw smear slick on her thighs as it flexes. </p>
<p>She licks a particularly rough stripe across Alice’s swollen lips before pulling away and Alice whines at the loss despite herself, but a second later Claire sets her mouth firmly on her clit and sucks with <em> just </em> enough teeth, sending white-hot pleasure coursing through her. </p>
<p>She barely registers Claire slipping two fingers into her; she’s so wet there’s no hesitation. Then Claire presses in to the knuckle and Alice cries out, overwhelmed with the sensations of being <em> full </em> and <em> stretched </em>. Claire dutifully pauses, kissing her thighs sweetly while Alice adjusts to her fingers.</p>
<p>“This okay?”</p>
<p>She sucks in a slow breath. It’s a <em> lot </em> , for sure, but it’s <em> good. </em> “Yeah,” she rasps. “I’m okay.”</p>
<p>“Alright.” Claire smiles at her. “Tell me if you need me to stop.” </p>
<p>Alice squeezes her grip in Claire’s hair and the redhead shoots her a <em> look </em> before dipping back down, laving her tongue against Alice. Her fingers start to move, pumping in and out, curling against her walls and dragging deliciously with every stroke. Alice bites her lip so hard it bleeds, at which point she decides keeping quiet really isn’t worth the effort. She lays her head back, mouth hanging open, and lets herself moan loudly and freely at Claire’s touches. </p>
<p>Claire is both a quick learner and incredibly attentive; with every gasp and moan that passes Alice’s lips, Claire’s pace adjusts, skirting the edge of pain and engulfing pleasure. She guides Alice slowly but firmly to the edge, alternating between licking and sucking at her clit, sometimes scraping her teeth across to get a louder cry. Alice trembles around her, her wings shivering and half-open. Her free hand is long since buried in her own feathers for lack of sheets to grip. At some point, Claire’s other hand snakes up to reach her, gently pressing her fingers in between Alice’s, and Alice takes it gratefully, twines their fingers together, and tries not to squeeze too hard. </p>
<p>She looks down at Claire over her stomach and she has to correct her earlier thought; the prettiest thing she’s ever seen isn’t her marks on Claire's breasts, it’s Claire between her legs, jaw wet with her slick, looking up at Alice with unbridled heat and <em> awe </em>. </p>
<p>It’s almost enough to make her come. </p>
<p>Claire holds her gaze as she squeezes a third finger into her and <em> curls </em>, and that come-hither motion finally sends Alice plummeting over the edge.  </p>
<p>Alice’s orgasm breaks through her with a shout, jerking her upwards and arching her around Claire’s mouth. Her wings snap open like a thundercrack, straining against the confines of the Hummer, her vision whiting out as the ecstasy and pure sensation of <em> touch </em> overloads her brain. Claire strokes her through it, minute movements that keep Alice quivering around her, extending the cliff-edge orgasm into an excruciatingly pleasurable wave before Alice finally has to push her away, overstimulated, her thighs drawing closed as though to protect herself. Her wings shake one last, tremulous time before she falls back to the floor, spent and breathless.</p>
<p> Claire wipes her jaw clean, dries her hands on her pants—<em> how had Alice forgotten to take those off? </em>—and tucks herself into Alice’s side, draping an arm across her waist for good measure. Her wings rest folded on top of Alice’s, which spread limply across the trunk. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” Alice finally says, too concentrated on remembering how to <em> breathe </em>to be articulate. </p>
<p>“Mm. That good?” </p>
<p>“<em> Fuck </em>,” Alice repeats. Her insides are still fluttering, already feeling empty without Claire’s fingers inside her. “That was…”</p>
<p>Claire nuzzles open-mouthed into the crook of her neck; Alice tilts her head to give her better access. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” she breathes. “Shit. <em> Thank you </em>.” </p>
<p>Claire hums in reply, absorbed in the task of sucking a wicked bruise into her neck; one last effort to mark Alice in return. She doesn’t mind; the feeling is comparatively numb in the wake of her mind-shattering orgasm. </p>
<p>She raises a hand to brush back Claire’s hair, wanting to see her face better, and Claire looks up from the impressive hickey she’s just made. (<em> Fuck</em>, she really hopes it’ll last). Alice smiles weakly; Claire beams back. She looks so content, so <em> proud </em> and <em> satisfied </em>to see Alice relaxed; it’s better than any of the expressions Alice has gotten from her by her own hand. It makes her heart swell in a terrifyingly familiar way and she desperately tries to beat back the feeling, but she can’t fight it; her smile deepens and she draws her arms around Claire, pulling the redhead up to rest fully on top of her. Claire squeaks in surprise, her wings flicking open behind her for balance as her weight is suddenly shifted. She quickly settles back down, parting Alice’s thighs so she can lay between. Alice isn’t worried; even if she’s still recovering from the edge of overstimulation, the move is one of comfort, not more demand.</p>
<p>The weight of the redhead is slight, and she delights in the full press of their naked bodies together. (Well, <em>technically</em> she hadn’t gotten Claire’s pants off this round, but whatever. Next time). Claire rests her palms on Alice’s chest and pillows her head on top, staring fondly up at her. Her wings relax and slip down to rest parallel to Alice’s sides, blanketing Claire on top of her.</p>
<p>Alice holds her gaze for a moment before laying her head back again. She runs her hands over Claire’s wings, relishing in the smooth texture of the red-brown feathers.</p>
<p>“It’s your turn now,” she rasps. “Just give me a minute.”</p>
<p>Claire shakes her head and reaches up to hold Alice’s cheek in her hand. “I’m fine, Alice. Relax.”</p>
<p>Alice cups Claire’s ass through her pants and gives her a squeeze, earning an indignant squawk in reply. “You sure?” she asks, leaning slightly into Claire’s palm.</p>
<p>“I just gave you the best fuck of your life and you’re <em> still </em> itching to get your hands on me?” Claire shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable. But <em> yes, </em> I’m sure.” her thumb strokes across Alice’s lips and she leans over a moment later to press her own there. “Lay still and let me pretend I did a good job.”</p>
<p>“You did an <em> amazing </em> job,” Alice murmurs against her lips. “I’ve never— I haven’t had it like that, ever.”</p>
<p>“Not just because you’re sensitive like you’ve been fucked raw for a week straight?”</p>
<p>A loud guffaw bursts out of her, and even more surprising: bright peals of laughter follow, from both of them. “Jesus, Claire, that’s harsh. And <em> no </em> , not just because I’m <em> sensitive </em>, it’s because I—” </p>
<p>The word sticks in her throat, something that used to roll off her tongue so easily. She swallows it down, works around the lump. “It’s because I like you. And you are <em> very </em> good, even if, admittedly, it has been a while.”</p>
<p>“Good.” Claire smiles, kisses her again. “Because I really want to do that again.”</p>
<p>“Mm, not unless I get to do you first.”</p>
<p>A begrudging sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, but I’ll take it.”</p>
<p>Her eyebrows raise. “Really? Accepting so quickly? I’d pegged you as more of a haggler.”</p>
<p>“You’d peg me?”</p>
<p>Alice’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “Uh.” </p>
<p>She might’ve initially dominated their dynamic with her brash flirting, but Claire was growing increasingly confident, keeping on her toes more often than not. Her question was joking, but Alice can see the earnest curiosity hidden in her expression, feel the excited twitch in her wings.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t,” Alice replies. Claire’s face falls, offense flickering across it, and Alice quickly adds, “but I’d be delighted to <em> strap </em>you instead.”</p>
<p>Claire snorts and pushes Alice’s shit-eating grin away with her palm, returning to nestle in the crook of Alice's neck. “I’ll hold you to that,” she laughs.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Alice says, giving Claire’s butt one last, fondling squeeze before pulling her arms up to hold her more fully. “First sex store I see, babe. We’ll go all out.”</p>
<p>Claire rolls her eyes, but Alice hears the way her heartbeat speeds up at the offer. Alice is <em> absolutely </em> going to do some extra digging the next time she’s on a scavenging run. For now though— for now, she holds Claire tight and doesn’t let go. If Claire’s determined to take care of Alice— well, she’s just going to have to return the favor tenfold.</p>
<p>Tomorrow. </p>
<p>It <em> was </em> the best fuck of her life, after all, and she was tired. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WHAT THAT MOUTH DO— ahem.<br/>If I had wings, I’d get them massaged like, every week. It sounds amazing. Now if only I had a cute caring gf to do it for me... 🤔</p>
<p>Hope yall liked this! It’s basically my first time writing smut so I’d love it if you'd drop a quick comment to tell me what you thought of it! (and whether there should be more… uwu) See you next week for more lovebird shenanigans!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. watch your step</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry for the delay y'all!! got busy and then hit some significant writer's block :/ but it ended up being pretty darn long, so hopefully that makes up for it ;0 enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Against very vocal disagreement, Claire insists on going out on the scavenging trip. The caravan, slowly shifting north, had just stumbled across a patch of deserted suburban sprawl, and since it seemed miraculously empty of the undead, it’s all hands on deck to clean it out. Despite promising appearances, they don’t let their guards down. The adults are sweeping the area in pairs, eventually meeting back at the camp with their findings. Even if the Crew hadn’t unanimously decided to set Alice as her partner, Alice would have demanded to do so anyway. It’s touching, that she cares so fiercely, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Claire’s a competent, grown-ass woman who’s been holding her own in the apocalypse for five years just like everyone else. She’s perfectly capable of defending herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she’s glad to have the blonde at her side. If anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> happen, with Alice here, she has no doubts about her safety. She hasn’t actually seen Alice in action yet, but Carlos and LJ’s stories paint a vivid picture of a skilled and vicious fighter, absolutely unmatched. Claire half-wishes that she could see Alice in action for </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it’s one sight she’s happy to miss out on if it means another day of (relative) peace and safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now, the pair is about halfway through their designated block. The houses here are two stories tall and cramped together; it’s a lot to go through, and slow progress. The interiors are relatively untouched, save the general chaos that’s common of the initial panic in a breakout. It’s evidence of a fast infection; the area was hit too quickly to use itself up. Despite the unfortunate story behind the neighborhood’s current state, it’s fair pickings; they bag a heartening amount of food cans and supplies. They’ll go through it eventually, of course, but it eases some of the weight on Claire’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think this house is clear,” she calls out, shutting the cabinet door. Alice is upstairs but Claire knows she can hear it. With her heightened senses, it’s hard to hide anything from the woman. Although it’s helpful that Alice can hear instructions from across camp and smell undead from a block away, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> hears everything Claire whispers under her breath, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>swears </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alice can </span>
  <em>
    <span>smell</span>
  </em>
  <span> it when she gets too hot and bothered. Which is... </span>
  <em>
    <span>inconvenient</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to say the least.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bit of rustling from overhead, then a voice. “I’m still looking around. You can go on ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire hesitates. “You sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If anything goes wrong, just shout for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She deliberates on that a moment, then shrugs. The area seemed clean so far, and truly, Alice </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>hear it if anything happened. She shoulders her duffel and heads towards the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take too long!” she calls out, crossing over the long-dead lawns to the next house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This home was obviously well-loved; even though the sky-blue paint is now faded and peeling, it speaks of a much cozier life than most of the tan monstrosities down the block. Claire passes a collection of pictures on the mantle on her way in but doesn’t stop to look. She doesn’t need any more faces to think about. Instead she beelines to the kitchen, and despite her hopes, it doesn’t look promising. A couple of the cabinet doors hang loosely on their hinges; one is torn off entirely, a long scar in the wood. An old, lingering stench of mold permeates the room. Claire draws her bandana up to try and block the smell as she rifles through the cabinets. They’re practically empty, only a couple of nutbars and a can of spaghetti sauce left. Claire takes the can but sniffs suspiciously at the bars. They’re a year past their expiration, but hey, survivors aren’t choosers. They can’t afford the luxury of being picky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having cleaned out the kitchen, she circles around to find the stairs; you never knew what useful things people had stashed in their bedrooms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A large smear of blood on the banister interrupts her light mood. It’s old, dried, and seeped into the wall, but that meant little in a world where the dead still walked. It was almost more reassuring when it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>fresh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire drops the duffel and draws her handgun instead, keeping it ready as she rounds the stairwell onto the second floor. She can see four doors; two are closed, one opens to a laundry room, and the fourth is cracked open but not enough to see what’s inside. She moves to check the half-open room first; dangerous as the undead were, a closed door— or rather a door with a knob handle— was often enough of a barrier to buy some time. An open doorway, on the other hand, was easy access.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nudges the door open with her foot, scanning the room. It’s completely torn apart; the sheets are ripped off the bed, and the contents of the desk flung across the room. The window is shattered outward, letting the thin breeze whistle through. There’s blood all over the floor and brown feathers scattered throughout, but otherwise is clear. The relative safety of the room, however, does nothing to settle Claire’s nerves. The rotting stench is thicker on this floor; the cloying smell of undeath. It makes her stomach roil. She’s almost tempted to move on without checking the other rooms; it would spare the risk and the bullets, but for the sake of future survivors (and the mercy of the damned), she knows she should finish her sweep of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She backtracks to the first closed door and tests the knob. It sticks, but it’s not locked. Claire holds her gun at the ready and slowly cracks the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside, something stirs faintly. It’s a woman, sitting next to the bed, one hand thrown up onto the mattress and the rest of her sprawled across the floor. Her legs are buried in a pile of tawny down, the stumps of what once were wings obscured from view. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Infected</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Claire raises her glock, sets her aim right at the woman’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes loll in their sockets towards Claire, unusually green. She opens her mouth, gasping on her dry throat, and something not-quite-indecipherable croaks out of her. Her tongue bobs in her mouth like a parrot’s, as though unused to the confines.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire freezes in the doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did she just try to speak?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman raises her arm but it moves awkwardly; Claire looks closer to see it’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>manacled</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the headboard; the wood has deep grooves carved into it from the metal. She rolls forward with another half-spoken groan, the manacle grinding against the headboard as she pulls on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the FUCK?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire clutches her gun but falters. Had there been something </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span> left in this shambling mass, yet after five years spent chained to the bed, its mind had rotted anyway? Another Alice, left undiscovered and now ruined? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes a step forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The manacle chain snaps with hardly a whisper, the links finally giving way, and the woman jerks up and </span>
  <em>
    <span>launches</span>
  </em>
  <span> herself at Claire, hands outstretched and eyes wild, a gurgling screech rising from her maw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire fires without pause, her instincts squeezing the trigger for her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One, two</span>
  </em>
  <span> bullets punch into the undead’s chest, sending the woman stumbling back. Claire breathes, raises her hands, and steadies her aim in a practiced motion. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Three</span>
  </em>
  <span> strikes her between the eyes and she crumples to the floor, landing in the pile of shed feathers. The stumps of her wings flop onto her back and slide off, sending clumps of down into flurries around her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire takes a single, long breath to try and calm her racing heart, then sweeps out of the room. Zombies were less attracted to noise than to smell, but the cry of the manacled woman would be enough to draw them in. She needs to get to open ground and warn the others. She unclips her radio and tunes into the caravan’s frequency. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carlos, everyone, I’ve got infected halfway down Aspen street. Only one so far, but stay sharp.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chorus of ‘roger’ and ‘you okay?’ come back through. “I’m fine,” she replies. “Going to clear the rest of the house. Alice is en route.”  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I think</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She puts the radio back on her belt, keeping it on but turning the volume down. Gripping her gun again, she holds it at her shoulder as she creeps down the hall. She checks the laundry first; all clear, and a half-full bottle of bleach to boot. She leaves it at the doorframe before testing the fourth and final door. This, too, reluctantly opens, revealing the master bedroom of the house. A cloud of the rotting stench wafts through the door and Claire gags on it, leaning against the wall as she tries to keep her coughs quiet. She ties her bandana tighter— though it does little to help— and forges in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor is </span>
  <em>
    <span>covered</span>
  </em>
  <span> in feathers. It’s a mix of blonde, tawny and brown, fully obscuring the hardwood and carpet. Streaks of long-dried blood have stained swathes of them brown-red. The bedposts are scratched and broken, the sheets flung over the edges and onto the floor. Two bodies lay on top, one reclined against the headboard and one hanging over the edge. Claire raises her gun, moving closer. It had been stupid to hesitate so long last time; a rookie mistake that she wouldn’t repeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bodies are a man and a woman— she thinks. The woman’s face is indecipherable; her entire front is mauled with long, deep rends. The wood headboard behind her is the only thing supporting her destroyed corpse. The man is half-leaned over the edge of the bed, his organs spilling from his gut like a waterfall. They’ve shriveled up in the desert heat, the fluid and blood they were once bathed having long since turned gelatinous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is to say, they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>far </span>
  </em>
  <span>past the point of reanimation, but she still keeps her guard up. Better safe than sorry. She crosses the destroyed bedroom and into the attached bathroom, but it’s similarly ravaged; there’s nothing worth taking. There hardly ever is. She huffs in frustration, but immediately regrets it, choking on the overwhelming smell of the bodies. Nausea surges up in her gut, overpowering</span>
  <em>
    <span>,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and she claps a hand over her mouth against the taste of bile. She stumbles out of the bathroom but the smell is stronger in the bedroom; blindly she fumbles against the wall for a window or something,</span>
  <em>
    <span> anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her hand latches onto a handle and she twists it, and suddenly she falls into fresh air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gulps it in, palms pressed against the floor. Floor? She frowns, looks to the side; ah, a balcony. The one good thing in this house. She lays still and waits for the nausea to pass, breathing slowly through her nose. It was strange for her to have such a reaction; Claire considered herself rather hardened against the horrors of the apocalypse. Perhaps they had simply caught up with her for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, she can’t waste time. She collects her handgun and hauls herself up by the wrought-iron railing. Briefly, she wishes she had Alice with her; nothing seemed like an issue when the blonde was at her side, and she was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the stress, the constant challenges of merely </span>
  <em>
    <span>surviving</span>
  </em>
  <span>— she shakes her head. She’d managed before Alice, she could manage after. Nothing good would come from relying on the other woman, as tempting as it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s clear now that there’s nothing left in the house; she’ll head out without lingering. She turns to the door but freezes, caught like deer in the headlights before the creature across the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man looms in the doorway of the bedroom, once-powerful shoulders hanging loose but still brawny at his side. His shirt is torn, revealing the bite on his stomach and the shriveled, contorted flesh around it. He snarls, lips curling back over black-gummed teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire fires without a second thought. The first shot lodges in his hip but he stumbles forward, undaunted. Her second bullet grazes his shoulder and he growls, the stumps of his naked wings flapping behind him, agitated. Except— they’re not just pink flesh. The bone has grown through the skin, lengthening into a scythe at the end of the limb. He extends them over his shoulders, digs the scythe-claws into the hardwood and swings forward, launching himself towards Claire. She fires again with a shout but it’s futile; he flings himself onto her, clawing at her jacket and sending them tumbling over the railing. Claire screams, her wings snapping open on instinct to break the fall but it doesn’t help— there’s not enough time, she can’t think— and they land heavily, rolling into the backyard. Her gun skitters out of her hand across the dry grass as the man pins her down to the lawn. She braces her hands against his neck, straining to keep his snapping jaws off of her. Claire kicks desperately at the undead but he doesn’t budge off of her. His arms spasm, his fingers scrabbling across her shoulders, unable to find purchase. He snarls at her again, wing-scythes coming over his shoulders to pin down her still-spread wings. He barely misses the muscle, but the acute pressure on her pinions still makes her yelp, and her strength falters for a split second. He comes gnashing towards her, jaws unhinged against her neck and Claire feels them whisper across her skin before a massive force </span>
  <em>
    <span>tears</span>
  </em>
  <span> his body off of her, sending him skidding across the lawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire scrambles to her feet, barely registering the mass of umber feathers in front of her; her gaze is focused on the man, climbing to his feet, pulling himself up by his scythes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Where was her gun? There— by the feathers— by— </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alice</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice plants her feet squarely apart, the feathers on her hackles rising. She stares down at the man, a fierce energy rising off of her. The man regains his balance, growling, pausing as though to size up the woman in front of him. Then he opens his mouth and </span>
  <em>
    <span>screeches </span>
  </em>
  <span>in challenge at Alice, his clawed stumps raising in the air beside him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Alice screams </span>
  <em>
    <span>back</span>
  </em>
  <span>, her wings snapping open in reply, the entire thirty-foot span releasing from their looming stations at her back to unfurl into a wall between the undead and Claire. Their spread had been intimidating even when she’d opened one bedraggled wing at a time; now, after finally being preened back into shape, they are </span>
  <em>
    <span>resplendent</span>
  </em>
  <span>; smooth, rolling plains of burnt umber feathers, singed dark at the edges, stretched across her vision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re massive; Claire can barely see over them. She glimpses the undead raise his scythes, his challenge issued and accepted, reaching towards Alice with a snarl, and then there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pressure</span>
  </em>
  <span>, squeezing behind her eyes until suddenly the man’s head </span>
  <em>
    <span>collapses</span>
  </em>
  <span>, folding into itself with a wet crunch. His face caves in backward and the remaining sides of his skull buckle down on top, crushing themselves together into a gorey paste. His body sways on its feet, then drops to the ground; a puppet with severed strings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, the pressure at her temple abates, pulsing softer and softer until she can no longer feel it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice stares at him, panting slightly yet preternaturally still. Finally, she heaves a long, deep breath, then spins on her heels and strides towards Claire. She bundles the redhead tight against her chest and wraps her wings around them, trapping Claire in her arms. Claire’s too stunned to react; her hands clutch automatically at Alice’s shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Alice.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She’s held too tight to her chest to see anything, but the image of the man’s head, thus inverted, is uncomfortably clear in her mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She did that. She… crushed his head. Caved it in. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice murmurs something above her, but she can’t make it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you hurt?” Alice repeats. “Did it— are you—?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire lets go of one shirtfull and claps a hand to her neck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, fuck— had she— </span>
  </em>
  <span>the skin is smooth, not even scraped by teeth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. I’m okay. I’m okay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Claire?” Insistent, worried. Unlike Alice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m- I’m okay,” she stammers. “He didn’t get me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice’s breath leaves her in a rush, her body sagging against Claire for a moment as the tension rushes out of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank god,” she whispers, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> a rarity, bringing up god, but the words are quiet enough that Claire pretends not to hear them. They clearly weren’t meant for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice clutches at Claire, her grip tight, bordering painful. Claire doesn’t press it; she’s working through her own rush of frantic, instinctual adrenaline, just like Alice; the blonde’s heart is thunderously loud in Claire’s ears, her skin hot and trembling with energy. Slowly, Claire relaxes in her arms, and she feels Alice start to ease up in tandem, but her hold on the redhead remains tight and possessive. Claire finally twitches her wings, uncomfortable, and Alice obliges her a little space to readjust before wrapping her up again. By now she’s passably calm, and even if Alice isn’t, she can’t keep back her curiosity any longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice,” she starts, hesitant, “Did you— what did you do to him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blonde tenses around her, then sighs. “When I bonded with the T-virus, it did more than just enhance me. It mutated, it— it gave me abilities.” her hand moves up, cups the back of Claire’s neck. She can’t help but wonder what other powers lie dormant under Alice’s skin and forces herself not to squirm away from the touch. Not that there’s anywhere to go; the wings she had so fiercely snapped out to shield Claire are now helping pin her to the blonde’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can do things with my mind,” Alice continues. “Like with the firestorm and the crows, the day we met. I’m- I’m not sure of their extent. I haven’t tried to use them, in case Umbrella could track it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you control it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Usually,” Alice says. “But sometimes it just </span>
  <em>
    <span>happens</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I accidentally broke my motorcycle a day before I found the caravan. And, uh, sometimes it’s like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Claire had decided, of all the options, to get emotionally tangled with the half-feral, traumatized superhuman who could summon firestorms and crush people </span>
  <em>
    <span>with her mind</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she wouldn’t give to be normal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, well, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely</span>
  </em>
  <span> true; Claire would fight tooth and nail to keep Alice, but still. Just because she knows how to handle a gun doesn’t change the fact that it’s loaded. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And can fire itself</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get a grip. You trust her.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I scare you?” Alice asks quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire doesn’t need to look up to know that Alice’s expression is piteously self-deprecating, but there’s no point in denying the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little,” she admits. “But I trust you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice chuckles morosely, loosening her grip so she can pull back. Her wings remain circled around them, keeping Claire caged even though Alice’s hands now merely hang on her waist. “I forget, so easily, how dangerous I am,” she sighs. “And I’m always reminded in awful ways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you didn’t hurt me, Alice,” Claire replies, brows pinching in confusion. “You protected me. Nothing went wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This time,” Alice mutters. “I wasn’t in control. I could have killed you just as easily.” Her hands shift to frame Claire’s cheeks, her fingers spilling over her neck. Both of them are keenly aware of how fragile the vertebrae underneath really are. “I was just… so </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that he would </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> touch you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The possessive edge to her voice sends it from a rasp to a near growl, sparking an uncomfortable burn of arousal in Claire’s chest. Claire thinks of the pounding pressure behind her eyes and wonders just what it felt like for Alice. How blinding the rage must have been to cover how intense it must have been to her. And for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Claire</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I be worried for the safety of Carlos and Mikey?” she jokes, covering her sudden nerves with a light tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice hums, noncommittal, smirking somewhere between mischievous and malicious. “Not even Carlos could get away with putting his hands on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire honestly can’t tell if she’s joking. She pulls Alice's hands off of her neck and the blonde concedes, albeit reluctantly. “It’s really sweet that you’d tear a man apart for touching me,” she says, “but unfortunately, you can’t play the possessive girlfriend; you still have to share me with the rest of the caravan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice’s eyes are still a little wild; not adrenaline so much as an instinctual, animalistic pride in holding Claire so close. “Must I?” she growls, her wings pulling Claire closer so she can catch the redhead’s earlobe between her teeth. “I want to keep you for myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire pushes her away sharply, both hands at the other woman’s collarbone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice,” she snaps, voice flat and reprimanding. “You can’t just-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Claire?” her eyes flash dangerously, her wings shifting around them; nowhere to go. Her grip tightens on Claire’s hips; bruising. Possessive. “You’re the one thing, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>one thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’ve gotten to keep. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>forgive me </span>
  </em>
  <span>for trying to keep what’s mine safe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You—” she shuts her mouth with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>click</span>
  </em>
  <span>, grinding her teeth in frustration. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How arrogant can-</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Alice; you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> me-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, make no mistake, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Alice growls. “Just like I’m yours. You let this dog into your home, and now it’s defending its territory. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> kept me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> let me stay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>opened your arms to hold me and I will not let </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> rip you away from me now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire blinks. Alice trembles around her, a faint tremor throughout. It makes the power in her body wholly apparent; beyond her grip on Claire, she can feel the tension and coiled strength in each connected muscle, barely contained under the skin, can sense the raw might hidden behind the feathered veils at her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She understands now; for all that the mood points to the contrary, she knows she’s not in danger. She never was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost sweet, in a terrifying sort of way, that this woman, this genetically-engineered </span>
  <em>
    <span>weapon</span>
  </em>
  <span> would tear everything apart to protect her. Claire knows Alice would do just about anything she asked for. When she’d pinned the blonde down in the Hummer the other night, she’d had no illusions as to whether she could actually hold her. But even so, the knowledge that Alice’s incredible strength, both physically and otherwise, had </span>
  <em>
    <span>bent </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>let </span>
  </em>
  <span>her take the reins was a heady thing. That straddled between her thighs was quite literally the most dangerous creature on the planet, and yet she was absolutely pliant under Claire’s touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s more than that. Claire had felt the instinct to help and protect Alice as soon as she saw her, just like she shepherded the caravan. But all the care and effort she’s tried to pour into the other woman, Alice had </span>
  <em>
    <span>allowed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Alice </span>
  <em>
    <span>let </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claire drag her behind the Hummer and preen her, let her touch the part of herself that she hated the most for hours without complaint. She’d trusted and</span>
  <em>
    <span> asked</span>
  </em>
  <span> Claire to cut buckshot out of her skin. Had wept openly in her arms; a confession that rings in her ears even now. Claire had knocked, but Alice had turned the key and unlocked herself, slowly and tentatively. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span>— the bruises forming on her hips, the hickeys hidden under her shirt, the bloody pulp of man laying behind them— is the other half. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the love language of a woman who has had everything stripped from her—her friends, her life, her </span>
  <em>
    <span>humanity</span>
  </em>
  <span>— clinging to what little she’s been given. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>is a feral creature who slept fire years in the desert, finally let into a home, who is learning how to be gentle again but cannot help the instinct to guard what’s hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alice’s, isn’t she? Alice crawled out of the sand with an open chest, and Claire had just smiled as Alice picked her up and tucked her inside like marrow into bone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire understands, deeply, the need to hold tight to what you had left, but comprehending the strength of Alice’s conviction is daunting. The depths in her eyes when Claire catches her staring aren’t the shallow pools of a passionate fling. There are vast oceans in Alice’s blue eyes, uncharted and aching to be explored. Abysses as well; too deep to tread for now, but waiting patiently nonetheless. To fathom that what kept her together for a half-decade in the sand, a thing that Claire can see a glimpse of at the right moment, is now wholly fixated on </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She breathes out softly, steps forward and wraps her arms up and around Alice, sneaking her hands between her wings and her back until her fingertips touch and hug the blonde tight. She leans her head against Alice’s chest, her temple coming to rest in the dip of her collarbone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did let you in,” Claire says. Alice tenses slightly in her arms, unsure of where the statement is headed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was the one who asked you to stay, and I don’t regret that. And I don’t blame you for wanting to defend me, either.” She laughs; a low, dry sound. “I don’t think I’d act any different if I were you. And yeah, you did- you did just save my life, and I thank you for that. But I can handle myself. I’ve survived without you until now. So protect me, cling to me, covet me, but Alice—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire pulls back, stares hard into shifting blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll put the caravan first. My life is not any more important than anyone else out scavenging with us, and you’re the only reason we didn’t lose another half of our people this month. We all need to work together. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We </span>
  </em>
  <span>need you. Not-” she falters. “Not just me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice stares back at her, her face pained and guilty. The ease with which her brows pinch together makes Claire’s heart lurch. Alice searches her expression, eyes seeking some unknowable hint, but she doesn’t seem to find it, and her lips lift into a small, rueful smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Alice murmurs a small eternity later. “I-” her throat bobs, working through something caught in it. “I knew you could kick my ass as soon as I saw you.” (Claire snorts at that.) “I know you don’t need me to save you. But I want to try and use this strength where it can help. I just want to— not return a favor, this isn’t-” she huffs, frustrated that the words are reluctant to flow. “I want to protect you because you’re— you’re all I have now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Again, another odd mark against Carlos and LJ.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shrugs. “We may have pulled each other out of hell, but we were pushed together. You— I chose you. It’s not the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her speech is blunt, but Claire knows what she means. In the apocalypse there aren’t any choices— at least, none that matter. You don’t pick what food you eat, what gun you carry or what roof you sleep under. Not really— you just go with the best prospect, follow the next necessary step for survival. Maybe the first few moves between them had been compulsive, necessary in some way; a bone-deep ache to be touched and held. But everything beyond, that had been their choice. They had danced around each other, their steps going not forward but around— circling, lingering, side by side until they’d found the same tempo. Binary stars, spiraling helplessly into a stellar collision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inevitable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” Claire replies. “I do. I’d tear myself apart to protect Kmart. I can’t ask you not to do the same for me, that’d be cruel. But we’re getting through this together or not at all. Alaska’s waiting for everybody.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really believe in it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do.” she presses a little closer to Alice, freely this time. “You convinced me. You helped me realize that we’re just surviving, just scraping by in these dunes. If Alaska has a chance of being better…” she lets out a breath, small and hopeful. “Then it’s worth the risk of getting there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” Alice replies, fervent. “It will be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conviction in her voice is almost enough to wash away the rest of Claire’s worries. No matter what happened, she’d have her caravan, her Crew, and most importantly, she’d have Alice. That’s enough for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls away, her hands slipping from Alice’s back to catch her wrists instead, turning their palms against one another and weaving their fingers together. She leans forward, lifting up just a hair to press her lips softly to Alice’s. She kisses her sweetly; Alice licks back tantalizingly but Claire doesn’t humor her, and eventually Alice sighs into the soft exchange. They trade small, tender presses of their lips; slower than anything they’ve done before. Alice’s very nature demands intensity, urges her to move and to act. And Claire loves that, loves her endless energy, but now she has a moment to slow it down, to relish not in the pressure but in the plush texture of their meeting lips. It’s a luxury to even breathe easy nowadays, but here, wrapped up in Alice, there’s nothing that could possibly harm Claire, and she’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity to revel in this calm moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The previously-insistent touch at her back shifts, relenting as Alice pulls her wings away, moving to tuck them behind herself. Claire opens her own, chasing Alice with the tips of her red-brown feathers. Alice twitches away at the touch, but Claire doesn’t hesitate, spreading out until they meet halfway, the edges of their wings press together just like their palms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice sighs against her, the slightest hitch in her breath, and Claire pauses in her study of the blonde’s lips, instead resting their foreheads together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish we could do this every day,” she whispers. “I’m so tired, Alice. I think I need Alaska. As much as everyone else does. More than, even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need a break,” Alice murmurs, an echo of many nights ago. “Alaska will let us rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It better,” Claire groans. “I’m just about sick of sleeping in the Hummer, too. There better be a queen-size mattress with my name on it up north.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Plus a nest of pillows,” Alice adds, her trademark grin creeping back onto her face. “And we’d have to paint the house, of course. Tan won’t cut it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god, no more tan! I’ve seen enough tan for a dozen lifetimes. Maybe yellow?” she opens her eyes, looks into Alice’s. “Or blue,” she smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blue’s good,” Alice agrees. “But my favorite color is red.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire laughs, a bright, clear sound, and Alice grins back, leans down to plant another kiss against the redhead’s lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> a shameless flirt,” Claire sighs against her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did warn you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” They’re both smiling so much that any semblance of a kiss is only there in implication. “I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But pressed so close, despite the light mood, neither can resist keeping off of each other’s lips, and they easily slot back together— and if Alice nips at her once or twice, Claire doesn’t call her on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then something hot drips down onto her lip, but the kiss is way too chaste for it to be saliva. Claire pulls back, half-expecting and half-dreading to find Alice crying in her arms again. Instead, a thin crimson line tracks down from her nose, slowly creeping over the ridge of her top lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re bleeding,” she blurts. Surprise had arrived faster than concern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice gently pulls a hand from Claire's grip and raises it to her lip, tapping then pulling back to inspect the blood on her fingertips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says. “I must have reacted more intensely than I thought.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You-” Alice interrupts her with a hand at her cheek, wiping at her lip with her thumb. It comes away with a small smear of red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to shed again?” Claire asks. It’s not an issue, it’s just unsettling. Unbidden, an image of the woman, manacled and covered in feathers flashes in her mind, but she forces it away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably,” Alice says. “Later.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’re burying the feathers this time. I’m sleeping in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! I’m the one that </span>
  <em>
    <span>saved </span>
  </em>
  <span>your ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only so you can stare at it,” Claire sighs dramatically. “It’s the only reason you stick around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand at her cheek darts downwards and squeezes her behind before she can catch it, prompting a surprised yelp from the redhead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice!” she hisses. “Not in p-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve been kissing for a solid five minutes. I think the line of subtlety has been crossed.” She punctuates this with another slight squeeze that makes Claire jump again, her wings startling open instinctually. “And the only man staring at us no longer has eye sockets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still,” she says, a weak protest. She pulls her wings back in, feathers ruffled, and Alice runs a placating hand over them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Alice says, not entirely insincere. “I’ll make it up to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire rolls her eyes. “Your way of making up for things is more of an encouragement of this than anything else. But,” she adds, gently pulling Alice’s wandering hand away from her waistband, “I’ll take it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Later</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Tease.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire scoffs at the blonde. “No, you’re just insatiable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guilty as charged,” Alice grins. “Though, really, we should get going before </span>
  <em>
    <span>later</span>
  </em>
  <span> turns into </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling her eyes, Claire plants one last kiss to Alice's lips— and then another, and then one or two more, just to be sure— before they unwind from each other and trace their steps back through the house. Claire tucks the bleach detergent into her duffel, then hefts the thick black canvas over her shoulder and follows Alice outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They backtrack to the previous tan monstrosity to pick up Alice’s duffel, though the blonde bids her wait at the front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a surprise,” she says. “You can’t spoil it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire just raises an eyebrow, but Alice’s expression is so unguarded and earnest; it unwinds something in Claire’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” she says. “I won’t look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice nods, turning away, then pauses, glancing back at the redhead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire waves a hand at her. “Don’t hover. It’s literally thirty seconds, I’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s basically what you said last time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. “Alice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay! I know, I know, we just talked about this.” She peeks at Claire one last time. “I’ll be right back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire shoos her away again, pointedly not looking at the blonde as she reluctantly walks inside. She listens as Alice climbs the stairs and walks into whatever room she’d found this surprise in, the house creaking loudly in protest with each step. Suddenly it hits her, just how much she misses this— misses listening to Chris waking up late, his heavy steps across the hardwood the soundtrack of her mornings. She always liked his footsteps; it was comforting to keep note of where her family was in the house, to know there was always someone close, and Chris’s steps were a constant, clear reminder of his presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She may know the cadence of the caravan, the patterns they fall into; she can easily tell who it is that crawls into the Hummer for the night, but— she doesn’t know K-mart’s footsteps. She’s never heard the teen sneak into a kitchen for a midnight snack or pad to her room for the evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Alice. She really knows so little about Alice, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she wants to learn. It surprises her, the sudden burst of conviction. But she does; she wants to memorize every step and breath and gesture. She wants to know how Alice brushes her teeth, whether she’d hog the blankets, if she likes to wear socks around the house or not. What kind of mug she picks in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wants to learn and she wants to live again, she wants to lo-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can look now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire’s eyes fly open, her body jolting away from the doorframe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” Alice asks, reaching out to steady her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah.” She looks away, reaching for her duffel to avoid Alice’s suddenly overwhelming gaze. “Lost in thought.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re going to start daydreaming, I might actually have to watch over you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire laughs, but it sounds weak to her ears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daydreaming, yeah. I'm just thinking about how I miss the sound of creaking floors. Nothing weird about that.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Alice regards her for another moment, but says nothing, just walks past and out the door, her hand tracing over Claire’s where it hangs at her side. It makes her heart jump in her chest, and she forces herself not to chase after the touch or blurt the words just lingering on her tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing odd about wondering what you look like in sweatpants,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks, shouldering her bag. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing bad about starting to— </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Starting to fall in love in the middle of the fucking apocalypse. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s screwed, she knows; </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>known it from the first burning glance Alice sent her way. But she’d lit more than one fire in Claire. An ember of hope, glowing where she’d once been resigned to find nothing. If anyone can lead them out of this hellscape, it’s Alice. She just hopes she can walk side-by-side with her bleach-blonde angel, that at the end of the road will be a bed and a roof and </span>
  <em>
    <span>peace</span>
  </em>
  <span> for both of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lays a hand against the door and prays, silent and unsure. There aren’t any gods left, not anymore, but if the universe brought Alice to her, then she has to hope there is still a force guiding the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She prays that it is kind. They’ve earned it.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>vote now on what color you think their house will be:<br/>1. yellow<br/>2. blue<br/>3. red<br/>4. tan because they'll be too busy using the bed to ever paint</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. northstar (you cannot see in the day)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I LIVE!! lmao. i refuse to die until i have wrung every last drop of lesbian prose from my fingers.<br/>a lot to get through this chapter, so sorry if the tone seems jumpy :0 but enjoy!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The night before Vegas, Alice pulls a miraculous half-bottle of whiskey out of her saddlebags, and the roar of delight from the Crew is so loud it echoes into the desert night. It almost brings out a confessional mood, sharing the last dregs of alcohol on the eve of the most dangerous day on their journey. Carlos, LJ, and Betty chat and swap stories freely while Mikey eagerly listens in. Otto is as eccentric as ever, and Chase always puts in a little cowboy wisdom to the conversation. Claire isn’t stingy; she shares a few tales of her own, and to everyone’s surprise, even Alice does— accounts of strange things she’d witnessed deep in the desert. She skirts over the fact that she’d seen these things in what essentially amounted to exile, but Claire can hear the ghost of it in the words she doesn’t say, the rough outline of a wound she can only feel and not see. She slides her hand closer to Alice’s and, as subtly as she can, hooks her pinky finger around the blonde’s. </p><p>It’s the smallest touch she can bear, open and exposed before the rest of the Crew, but all the same, she wishes she could throw her arms around Alice and remind her that she wasn’t alone anymore. But both she and Alice had agreed early on to keep their relationship out of sight. Not out of shame— she knows Alice would be more than happy to leave egregious hickeys across her neck— but because this thing was tender. It certainly wasn’t just a friends-with-benefits situation, but it was also a far cry from a traditional romance. In any case, whatever words they might use to label their connection, they didn’t want to air it out for all to see. So Claire allows herself the indulgence of sitting next to Alice and twining their pinkies together, all the while clenching her wings behind her back to keep them from reaching out. </p><p>She can tell Alice is holding back too; she tries not to, but she finds her gaze wandering to the other woman, and when their eyes meet, Alice’s crinkle in a way that Claire knows means she’s been caught staring. Her fingers twitch under Claire’s when the redhead moves, itching to touch her, and when the bottle passes between them, neither can help from lingering longer than they should, fingertips brushing for achingly short seconds. </p><p>If Claire thought about it for any amount of time, she’d berate herself for acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. But the whiskey is strong, it’s been such a long time since she’s had any, and there’s so little meat left on her bones that even her good Redfield liver can’t save her from effectively becoming a lightweight. So maybe she laughs a little louder than normal when Alice cracks a joke, and hardly pays attention to the rest of the group, but it’s fine; she’ll blame it on the alcohol. </p><p>All too soon, the bottle is empty and the chatter slowly dies down, becoming lower tones, talk of the first few awful months and hopes for the next ones. Claire takes it as a moment to sit back and look around at her Crew, really <em> look </em>; sees Carlos’s black wings, the firelight revealing tips that glow with bleached-looking bars on the feathers. K-mart, who had been obliged a single taste of whiskey after extensive needling, now listening intently, her eyes bright and inquisitive as always. Being only 17 and malnourished, her wings aren’t entirely grown in, bits of stubborn down sticking out between blindingly blonde plumes. They’re smaller than average and curved like a sparrow’s, short but powerful. LJ and his small, dazzlingly bright feathers, green like a budgie but with blue edges and decorative, trailing cobalt blue plumes.  Betty’s wings are long, white, and slim like a swan’s; they contrast perfectly with LJ’s colorful pair (Claire almost feels a pang of jealousy— she and Alice are not nearly so well matched, but then again, few happened to be). </p><p>These are the moments— snapshots of being happy, safe, and surrounded by friends— that keep Claire going. These are the memories that drove her to choose Alaska; after all, if the north has even a chance of being safe from the undead, then she’s going to take it. Safety is what matters; they can scrape by scavenging, but the undead will always come. Claire trusts in Alice and the rest of her Caravan; otherwise, this impromptu party wouldn’t be happening. It’s a relief to relax, even if not wholly. She hadn’t realized just how much the desert had worn on her; scraped raw by a thousand grains of sand, thinner every day. Alice had reminded her. She’d brought out a lot in Claire that she’d forgotten. That the whole <em> caravan </em> had forgotten. Their plight was the worst it’d ever been, yet the motley group of survivors was alive as ever. Reinvigorated by Alaska, by the ash angel who’d swooped in to save them, by the spark of life in the eyes of Claire, Carlos, and LJ. When even your <em> leaders </em> were dejected, it was hard to find reasons to stay lively. But now they all had <em> hope </em>. </p><p>So Claire lets herself just… exist. Feels drunk on the close, familiar atmosphere, the tender livewire of Alice’s fingers against hers, and the guilty pleasure of taking a break. </p><p>She doesn’t notice the time until Chase sets a hand on his knee and speaks, his drawl roughened by the alcohol. </p><p>“I’m not as young as I was,” he says. “And that was some damn fine whiskey. So,” he tips his hat. “I bid y’all a-deiu.” </p><p>“Your french is awful, cowboy,” Alice laughs. </p><p>He waves her off. “Whiskey loosens my tongue. And now I’m leavin’, before I really make a fool of m’self.”</p><p>As he starts back to his tanker, the rest of the Crew takes turns making their goodnight farewells. They linger, tired but reluctant to leave the comfortable moment. Alice squeezes their twined pinkies and leans in a little closer than she probably should, but Claire’s finding it increasingly hard to remember the reason why. </p><p>“You want to go back to the Hummer?” she husks, and somehow touching her with one finger is more enticing than a literal hand in her pants. </p><p>“<em> Yes </em>, but—” </p><p>“K-mart’s already asleep in Carlos’ Jeep.”</p><p>Claire glances over the fire, but nobody’s paying attention. She laces the rest of her fingers between Alice’s and the blonde clasps them immediately. </p><p>“You know me too well.” she grins. “Plus you’re goddamn insatiable.”</p><p>Alice grins right back. “You bring out the best in me.”</p><p>“Certainly not anything polite.”</p><p>She winks, standing before Claire can glare at her. “We’re going to turn in, too,” she says, betraying none of the playful anticipation she’d just showed. “Someone can’t hold her whiskey.”</p><p>Claire swipes at her, but Alice dodges effortlessly.</p><p>“See? You’re off your game.”</p><p>“You’re lucky I let you stay,” Claire grumbles, climbing to her feet. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>As soon as they reach the Hummer, Alice pulls her around the side and pins her to the door, hips pressing into Claire’s and hands tracing roughly over her chest. Claire would poke at her for being so eager if Alice’s tongue wasn’t already tangled with her own. It’s a pattern Claire’s grown familiar with; on cue, Alice wrings a soft moan from her lips, and she takes it, like usual, as permission to pop the button of Claire’s cargos.</p><p>She makes a panicked noise, catches Alice’s wrists and pulls away from her lips, panting. </p><p>“We’re not in the Hummer yet-”</p><p>“And? Nobody’s going to see us.” Alice flares her wings, spreading them to the edges of the Hummer, mantling over the two women in a dome of feathers.</p><p>Claire’s breath hitches in her throat— it always does when she sees Alice’s magnificent wings spread— but doesn’t capitulate. </p><p>“Real subtle. No one will see you crowding someone into the Hummer and <em> not </em> make assumptions.” </p><p>“Do you not want it?” Alice asks. “Because it feels like you want it.” She flexes her hands in Claire’s grip, dragging her fingers between her thighs and despite the fabric between them, her breathing stutters and she twitches at the touch. </p><p>“Horny pigeon,” she grumbles, begrudgingly releasing Alice’s hands. Her left immediately slides into her pants, fingering her through her underwear, drawing a sigh from her lips.</p><p>“Gay puddle,” Alice retorts. Her fingers curl up and Claire stifles a gasp. “See? You’re already wet for me.”</p><p>Claire braces her hands on Alice’s shoulders and resolutely avoids meeting her eyes. Her blush is telling enough of her response. </p><p>Alice grins but spares her further embarrassment by getting to work, setting her teeth to her neck and mouthing at the spot behind her ear that always gets a reaction. Her fingers press up into Claire, parting her lips to stroke firmly at her clit. The cotton between them dulls the sensation somewhat, but it allows Alice to use more pressure, dragging her digits against her. Claire‘s hips buck of their own volition, chasing the touch, and Alice grins against her neck. </p><p>“There we go,” she rasps. “You’ve got it.”</p><p>Claire’s heart starts hammering in her chest. “A-Alice-” </p><p>She rolls her hand, eliciting a shiver. “<em> Do </em> you want it, Claire?”</p><p>God, what <em> doesn’t </em> she want about Alice? She wants her lips, her teeth, her tongue, wants her inside and out. Wants to wrap up in her wings and stay there forever. Wants to lay in bed for hours and whisper until the sun comes up, then sit staring at each other over their coffee. But that would have to wait. </p><p>For now— for now,  Claire wants nothing more than for Alice to tear off her pants and take her right there against the Hummer. But judging by the wickedly expectant look on Alice’s face, it seems Claire’s going to have to do a bit more work to earn that. </p><p>“Yes,” Claire pants. </p><p>She’s rewarded with a flick across her clit, and then Alice is slipping a thigh between hers, the corded muscle firmly bracing her palm against Claire’s core. </p><p>“Then take it,” she rasps. </p><p>Alice’s face is buried in her neck, but Claire still turns away as she gingerly begins to move her hips, tentatively rolling against Alice’s hand. Alice presses back encouragingly, her right hand coming to rest on her hip and hold her down against her thigh.</p><p>“That’s a good girl,” she whispers, teeth tugging at her earlobe. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”</p><p>Claire clamps her mouth shut, blushing furiously even as her hips increase their pace, now eagerly grinding into Alice’s waiting hand. With her boxers still between them, the sensation isn’t <em> sharp </em>, but it’s still heady and electric, deep pulls of pleasure each time she rocks against the other woman. Alice helps, teasing her clit between two fingers or flexing her thigh in time with Claire’s motions, and it’s embarrassingly soon before Claire feels the familiar, tense fluttering in her stomach. She doubles down on Alice, crushing herself against her thigh, concentrating her movements into tight circles, chasing the elusive point of perfect pressure. She pants over Alice’s shoulder, harsh gasps flying from her lips, louder and louder until the hand at her hip lifts up to instead cover her mouth, barely in time to stifle a sharp moan when her hips roll over a particularly sensitive point. Alice pulls her head back from her neck, her ministrations just shy of hickey-forming, and grins at Claire, taking in her blown pupils and flushed cheeks. </p><p>“You <em> like </em> this, don’t you? Not even a hundred feet from camp, exposed and in the open,” she flexes her wrist, thrusting the heel of her palm into Claire, drawing out another muffled moan. “ <em> Fucking yourself </em> against me.” </p><p>Claire barely manages a nod against the hand at her mouth, too concentrated on clawing herself over the edge to speak, let alone deny it. </p><p>“<em> Riding </em> my hand. <em> Using </em>it,” Alice continues. One of the fingers at Claire’s mouth bends to trace her lips, then dips under, the pad rough against her gums. She moans and takes it in her tongue, choking each desperate noise against the digit. “Fuck. You’re so good for me-”</p><p>Her movements lose their focus, becoming frantic and messy and <em> so </em> damn close, grinding into Alice’s hand with a feral frenzy. She’s so tight, clenching on nothing, spots dancing across her eyelids every time she blinks. She’s on the edge, holding on by her fingernails, but she can’t let go, she needs just a little more—</p><p>“Alice, I- please-” her words are slurred by the finger in her mouth, but her point gets across. Alice presses another digit between her teeth, bracketing her tongue. The hand at her groin shifts; Alice curls her fore- and middle-fingers to pop the first knuckles up into her, <em> right </em> at her clit, her thigh flexing to crush them against the sensitive bundle of nerves.</p><p>Claire chokes her cry on Alice’s fingers, rocks her hips a few more times, rough and frantic, flexing her wings against the Hummer so she can press forward, <em> grind </em> down into Alice, and finally the fierce dam of tension inside her breaks. </p><p>Her head snaps back off of slender fingers, colliding painfully with the Hummer as a piercing cry wrenches from her lips, white-hot pleasure obliterating any thought of secrecy. Alice surges forward half a second too late, slotting their lips together to try and swallow the rest of her moan. Claire shudders against her, hips bucking erratically, each brush against Alice’s knuckles sending new shocks of ecstasy through her. She arches into Alice, as far as her back will bend, hands clutching too-tight at her shirt and feathers. She’s gasping, moaning uncontrollably, trying to hold herself together as the aftershocks wrack her, clenching on nothing while Alice strokes her gently but firmly through her orgasm. </p><p>“That,” Alice says, pulling back from her lips but quickly muffling Claire again with her hand, “was <em> really </em> hot.”</p><p>Claire gratefully pulls her fingers between her teeth, panting through the last of her moans. She runs her tongue over Alice’s fingers, presses the pads back far enough to threaten a gag. The blonde’s eyes darken, the muscles of her forearm flex, and her left hand twitches against her cunt. Claire strangles another deliriously pleased noise, then a second, louder, when Alice drags her hand from her pants, glistening with slick despite her boxers having been between them.</p><p>“<em> You’re </em> hot,” Alice whispers. “You’re beautiful. I love it when you look like this— wrecked.” She leans in, sucks in a heavy breath against her neck. “Wrecked, for me. I’ll never get enough. You’re going to ruin me, Claire.” </p><p>“<em> You’ve </em> already ruined <em> me </em>,” she pants back, Alice’s fingers slipping from her mouth. She tries not to get distracted by the way her saliva stretches into gossamer-thin strands as Alice’s hand pulls further away. Her feet are still technically on the ground, but she doesn’t think she could stand if Alice removed her thigh, so she trails her hand down the blonde’s shoulders until she can hook her fingers in her belt loops and pull her flush against herself, firmly pinning her to the Hummer. Alice’s wings twitch but remain up and mantled over them. Claire ignores the way the sight makes heat pool right back into her gut. </p><p>Alice rises from her neck, staring at her face, tracing over her features long enough to draw another blush from them.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>She smirks. “I’m thinking about pulling you into the Hummer and finally fucking you until you can’t walk-” Claire turns fuschia, surely, “but I think that might be a bad idea, considering Vegas.”</p><p>Is it? Claire can’t decide, because it’s an awfully tempting idea, and tomorrow and all its dangers seem so far away. </p><p>Alice groans, slots their mouth together for a wet, heated second. “Keep looking at me like that and I might just do it,” she rasps, so close their lips are practically still pressed together. </p><p>“Mm. I don’t think I’d be mad.”</p><p>“No, you would. Right until I,” she waggles her eyebrows, “<em> made it up </em> to you.”</p><p>Claire rolls her eyes. “You’d only be making the problem worse.”</p><p>“But you’d like it,” Alice grins back. “That’s the important part.”</p><p>“I <em> do </em> like you, don’t I?” </p><p>
  <em> Liar. You love her like an idiot. You’re head over fucking heels for her. </em>
</p><p>“You do. A terrible mistake.”</p><p>Claire tugs her even closer, claims her lips and licks hungrily into them. Alice eagerly kisses back, and the kiss turns filthy in no time, dirty and wet and obscenely tongue-filled. Alice leans into her and Claire can feel the blonde’s nipples through her own bra they're so pert. She groans, reaches behind to fumble blindly for the door handle—</p><p>A piercing wail interrupts her, echoing in the night.</p><p>They both freeze, blood instantly icing over. Alice breaks from her lips, staring distantly at the camp on the other side of the Hummer—she’s listening, Claire realizes— and a second later her face drains of color. </p><p>“Alice?”</p><p>She swallows thickly. “It’s LJ,” she whispers. “He’s with Betty, but he’s- dropping. He’s been-” </p><p><em> Infected </em>. </p><p>Alice chokes down a sob, Claire mutely buttons her pants again, and with dreadful urgency, they make their way back to camp. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Claire forces herself not to look away as LJ’s abruptly lifeless body falls into Betty’s arms. Doesn’t ignore her tears, doesn’t look away from the hands clutching at patchy green wings. Burns into her mind the sight of a crimson trail between his resigned eyes.</p><p>She stands there in a silent vigil like the rest of them, hand trembling around the trigger. </p><p>A small eternity passes before Betty’s cries at last slow and grow quiet. She clutches LJ close one more time before gently releasing him into the shallow grave. She closes his eyes, then turns away, gathering shed lime plumes as Claire and the others cover him with sand. They work in silence; not a word, not as they take their turns laying a hand on his cross, not when Claire pulls Betty into a brief, clutching hug, not when Betty passes out little budgie feathers and they tuck them into their own wings, nestling bright green reminders into their feathers. Claire slots hers on the inside of her wing, right in the open. It stands out proudly against the deep red background. </p><p>Alice takes two— one she puts on the outside, at the wrist of her right wing, and the other she tucks into her left, so close to her spine that you wouldn’t see it unless she extended her wings straight back. It’ll stay there for a while, hidden away like that. Even once it falls out, they both know she won’t be ready to let go yet. </p><p>They hold vigil for another long while before Claire finally takes Alice’s hand in hers and leads her back to the Hummer. </p><p>They lie facing each other, Alice clinging to her and crying so, <em>so</em> quietly into her chest. Tears slip down Claire’s cheeks too, but she knows she needs to stay strong; needs to keep being an anchor for Alice, who cares too much to lose so many. So they lay like that, trembling, holding one another until Alice spreads a protective wing, clutches Claire even closer, and they both eventually succumb to a weary, dreamless sleep.  </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The caravan is understandably subdued the next morning. Most of them are puffy-eyed and bleary. Losing LJ had hit them hard; he’d been a bright spot among the caravan, never losing his charm or sociability. Few people did not count him as a close friend and confidant, always happy to chat and help raise spirits. Without him, the road to Alaska seems a lot longer. </p><p>Still, they shoulder on. Claire rallies the Crew, says a few encouraging words, and then they’re off, crammed into their vehicles and bound for Vegas. It’s near 90 miles away, and even though K-Mart’s hunkered down in the backseat with the red notebook, Claire lets her wings drop and rest against Alice’s. The blonde nudges her back but keeps her eyes on the road, perched in the passenger seat. </p><p>“Alice, have you ever been to Alaska?” K-Mart asks, flipping to the next page. Each of them had looked over the red notebook enough to memorize it, but still, they looked on, as though there were still more secrets to uncover from the chicken scratch. </p><p>“I’ve flown over it, but haven’t landed.”</p><p>“Huh. Have you ever seen a moose?”</p><p>“I have, actually.” There’s a slight curl to her lips when Claire looks over. “My boss was invited on a hunting trip in Canada, and he took my team along as a bonus. And also survival training. But yes, we saw one, deep in the taiga. It was…” she lets out a low whistle. “It was <em> huge </em>.” </p><p>“Did you kill it?” she sounds a little upset; Claire glances at Alice, concerned, but Alice shakes her head. </p><p>“No. We just watched it go.” Both of them let out a breath. “We only had a license for deer. Besides, we wouldn’t have been equipped to hunt it. Moose are powerful, dangerous animals.”</p><p>“If Alaska’s as untouched as that notebook claims, maybe we’ll spot one,” Claire muses. “That’d be a sight to see.”</p><p>“There’s good meat on them, too. Then again, deer are easier.” </p><p>Her stomach almost growls on the spot. “Man, I haven’t had fresh meat in… god knows how long.” </p><p>“Almost makes you miss fine dining, huh? All that pomp for a bite of steak.”</p><p>“Well, I know <em> I </em>hate it, but…” she glances sidelong at Alice. “You strike me as the type who enjoys a bit of dress-up.” </p><p>“I won’t lie, a red dress and a pistol in your garter is good fun, but playing armed arm candy gets old real quick.”</p><p>Claire is immensely grateful that there’s literally no one on the road in front of them, because the mental image of Alice in something slinky and floor-length almost makes her swerve off the interstate. She doesn’t need to take her eyes off the road (nor should she) to know that Alice is grinning viciously at her. </p><p>“I looked damn good, though. Almost good enough to make me miss it.”</p><p><em> I miss it already </em>. </p><p>She can’t imagine Alice— devastating even in dirty rags— dressed up enough for a high-society nightclub. Claire would have a heart attack and die on the spot. </p><p><em> Gay puddle </em>. But with Alice looking beautiful just sitting beside her, grinning, one arm on the window? Yeah. How could she be anything else?</p><p>“And I thought that the stories Carlos and LJ told were unbelievable. What <em> haven’t </em> you done, Alice?” K-Mart’s eyes are starry, leaning forward on the dashboard between the front seats. “I mean, you sound like a secret agent or something!”</p><p>Alice laughs, a delightfully raspy sound. “I was just a security guard,” she says, the bitter edge of her voice well-hidden. “Nothing special.”</p><p>K-Mart rolls her eyes but reclines to the middle. “Yeah, sure. Literal Amazon like you was totally normal before the apocalypse.”</p><p>“Downright domesticated.” </p><p>Claire snorts, but has to shove away the ideas of <em> Alice </em> and <em> domestic </em> before they can meet. Nevermind <em> Amazon </em>. </p><p>“Well, let’s just keep hoping on Alaska,” she says. “May it be all we wish and more.”</p><p>“We can hope,” Alice agrees. </p><p>“I want a bunk bed,” K-Mart announces. “My dad wouldn’t let me have one.”</p><p>“As long as you’re not too tall, kid,” Alice says. “You can have whatever the hell kind of bed you want in our house.”</p><p>Claire’s heart skips a beat. “Our house?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Alice is still sporting her trademark smirk, but when she sees Claire’s turned gaze, a little more open and raw than she probably ought to be, it softens, her eyes crinkling just slightly. “<em> Our </em> house. You couldn’t kick me out now if you tried.”</p><p>She wishes she could see what went on behind Alice’s inscrutable eyes. They were so transparent and telling, yet they still hid so much more than they shared. She’d professed her dedication multiple times—even a little too much, by some standards, but this <em> is </em> the apocalypse—but Claire still found herself wondering. Questioning. How far would this go? What was Alice in for? How deep did their attachment run beyond Alice reaching for her body, liplock and slotted hips?</p><p>No. An unattached fling would not tear a man apart for Claire, would not clutch her so close every moment she could. Would not see a glimpse of the tender under the callus and offer an honest smile in reply. </p><p>“I’d never refuse you. I couldn’t.”</p><p>Alice smiles, honest and happy, and Claire has to look back at the road before she blurts something damning. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Vegas goes to shit, of course. Alice had thought she could outrun Umbrella a little longer, but life was always cruel to her. </p><p>The cargo container opens, spills out hell, and for long minutes, all she sees is red. </p><p> </p><p>She’s paralyzed. Stone. Flash-frozen, skin iced over burning hot muscle; she writhes inside herself, unable to move. Coated in still-warm blood up to her elbows, spattered and soaked with it across her front. The smell compels her to move, the frenzy of the fight, of the <em> undead </em>, awakening something feral within her enhanced instincts. But her body refuses to bend to her will. Her very flesh rebelling; commanded by a force not her own.</p><p>But she <em> needs </em> to move. She needs to fight. She <em> needs </em> to protect something— someone— </p><p>A scream; anguished, enraged, scraped from the bottom of the soul.</p><p> </p><p><em> Claire </em>.  </p><p> </p><p>A flash of crimson—this is darker, more like umber, her feathers are— then white, then black, and then red red red, drowning out everything else. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They’re not flying to Alaska. Well, they <em> are </em>, but not by their own wings, that is.</p><p>Except for Alice. </p><p>She’s missing this first flight.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“You’re— you’re not coming with us?” She all but spits the words, incredulous.</p><p>Alice looks away. “I have to do this.”</p><p>“No, you just want to fulfill your death wish. You’ll die down there.”</p><p>A rueful smile. “I’ve heard that one before.”</p><p>“Do you think I’m joking? I’m— I <em> can’t </em>lose you too, Alice!”</p><p>“I don’t enjoy the thought either. But it <em> has </em>to be done.”</p><p>“No, you <em> do </em> enjoy it. You <em> enjoy </em>the thought of finally getting revenge more than you value your life or the wellbeing of anyone else in the caravan. More than you care about me.” </p><p>“Claire—”</p><p>“No! Don’t tell me ‘nothing could rip you away from me’ when our chance to escape is <em> literally </em> right in front of us and you <em> won’t take it </em>.”</p><p>“Don’t— it’s not that simple.” She sounds hurt, honestly hurt, but Claire doesn't stop.</p><p>“It really is. You could walk away from everything right here, <em> right now </em>, and you won’t.”</p><p>“It’s <em> NOT </em> !” Alice snaps, then abruptly spins away, hackles raised. “You don’t know what they did. What they <em> will </em> do. They'll never stop, Claire.” She turns, slowly, looks over her shoulder, eyes hard and haunted. “This was only a warning. Mikey, Otto— their blood on the sand is a <em> fraction </em> of what Umbrella will do, what they’ll send after us. After me. Either we burn the weed out at the root or it will regrow.” </p><p>Claire stares at her, furious, nails biting angry half-moons into her palms. Then a new thought slinks into her mind, a cold and dreadful sort.</p><p>“Did- did any of this—of <em> us </em> —even matter? Do you actually believe <em> anything </em> you’ve said to me?” </p><p>“Of course,” Alice replies immediately. “I’ve never lied to you, Claire.”</p><p>“And are you lying now?”</p><p>“Only about how much I want to throw my past behind me and run away with you.”</p><p>She swallows, blinks back the burning in her eyes. She can’t lose it now.</p><p>“Then <em> why? </em>”</p><p>“Because,” Alice says. “If I don’t, there’s no future for <em> anyone </em>. Not while Umbrella still exists. Did Carlos ever tell you about Jill?”</p><p>She blinks, taken aback by the shift. “Yeah. She died in an Umbrella raid, right?”</p><p>Alice nods. “But did he ever tell you about Angie?”</p><p>“No, he didn’t. Alice, what does this-”</p><p>“She was eleven.”</p><p>She squeezes her eyes shut. No more faces, no more <em> names-  </em></p><p>“She died the same night, because Umbrella was tracking me. Controlling me. Spying through my eyes. They followed me to the resistance’s warehouse with a strike team and burned it to the ground.”</p><p>“Detroit,” Claire whispers. She’d only heard hints of it on the real bad nights, when the shadows were long and their demons loud.</p><p>“Detroit,” Alice confirms. “That’s why I went off the grid. That’s why <em> this </em> ,” she gestures vaguely toward the circle of vehicles at the bottom of the rock outcrop, “was something I was trying to avoid. Because I <em> knew </em> the same thing would happen again. And now it has.”</p><p>“But…” Claire can’t let go, not this soon. “You said you destroyed the satellite. They can’t track you anymore.”</p><p>“We don’t know for sure. There are multiple satellites, anyway, and Umbrella always has some dirty trick up their sleeves. This is the only way to be sure.”</p><p>She can’t think of any other protest, any other idea. She’s out of her depth with Umbrella; to her, they were just the pharmaceutical company before they apparently ended the world. She didn’t have the same history as Alice, the same knowledge of just how insidious and dogged they were. </p><p>“If-”</p><p>She pauses, takes a breath. Hopes this is the right thing.</p><p>“If you’re trying to protect us, then you have my blessing. Just- promise me you’re doing this to prevent any more Angies.”</p><p>Alice looks up sharply. Claire meets her gaze, unflinching.</p><p>“Promise me you’re doing this for us. For K-Mart and Carlos, and the rest of them. I know you won’t- I know I can’t expect you to <em>not</em> want revenge, but-”</p><p>She sighs wearily, stepping closer to Alice. She tenses but stays where she is, and Claire gently gathers up her palms and cradles them to her chest. </p><p>“Don’t get yourself killed, Alice. Revenge isn’t worth losing <em> this </em> over.”</p><p>This. <em> Them </em>. </p><p>(She hopes it isn’t, at least.)</p><p>Alice stares at her for long seconds; it would make Claire’s gut curl anxiously if her expression wasn’t one of sad, quiet awe. </p><p>“It isn’t,” she says eventually. “Not by a long shot. I promise, Claire. I will come back to you.”</p><p>Her hands slip from Claire’s grip to instead wrap her into a tight hug, and her huge, ashen wings extend into a cocoon around them. Claire buries her face into Alice’s shoulder, unable to fight back tears any longer. Her ship is out to sea; there’s no need for an anchor. No more pretense of strength.</p><p>Alice holds her tight until she stops shaking, then pulls back to meet her eyes, palms braced on her arms. </p><p>“Do you remember what I said on that scavenging mission last week?”</p><p>“You said a <em> lot </em> of things,” Claire sniffles back. </p><p>Alice rolls her eyes. “I told you I had a surprise for you.”</p><p>A bitter laugh erupts from her chest. “Is now really the best time, Alice?”</p><p>“Fortunately or not, it’s perfect for this first part.” Her left hand leaves Claire to root around in her coat, pulling out a stack of small, square papers, bound in twine. “Here.”</p><p>Claire takes it gingerly, shooting a confused, pleading look at Alice, but the blond just shrugs and motions towards the stack again. Claire pulls the twine loose and shuffles through the papers—</p><p>Not papers. <em> Photos. </em></p><p>There’s a little bit of light pollution, odd streaks across the surface, but they’re clear snapshots. Each is a candid shot of the caravan and it’s people, more often the Crew than not. They’re taken from occasionally odd positions— the photographer was clearly trying to hide the camera— but they’re still strong compositions, framed well and with a clear emotion in mind. </p><p>Otto mid-sentence, hand extended with a can, Chase with his tilted grin leaning to the side.</p><p>Betty and LJ, sitting in the ambulance. Happy. A quiet moment. Their perfectly matched feathers open around each other.</p><p>Carlos, looking into the distance, the silhouette of his face and wings stark against the sunset.</p><p>Alice.</p><p>Alice, perched on top of the tanker, wings fully extended, sunning herself in the early morning rays. </p><p>Alice, smirking at the camera. (She’s clearly acknowledging it, but it’s still slightly blurry; a spontaneous movement).</p><p>The both of them, sitting together by the fire, hands brushing and Alice leaned in close— last night, Claire realizes. Their pinkies twined and hearts bared, so easy and carefree in the moment.  And Claire, she- she <em> looks </em> in love. Disgusting, heart-eyed, sappy love, gooey at just the sight of the other woman. And Alice— she almost looks the same, staring right back at Claire. </p><p>“Until I get back,” Alice rasps, as if that’s explanation enough. “So you’ll have more than memories.”</p><p>“You— <em> bitch </em>-” she gasps, dragging a rough hand across a new wave of tears. “How’d you even-?”</p><p>“I found a Polaroid camera and some film, gave ‘em to K-Mart. She’s got a surprisingly good eye for it.”</p><p>Awful, perfect fucking Alice. Who knew too well the pain of memories, the worth of something to actually have and hold and remember.</p><p>“Do you like them?” She asks quietly, at Claire’s stunned silence. “I thought— I’d seen you looking at that photo of your brother, and-”</p><p>“I love them,” Claire smiles, blinking back her tears. “They’re— they’re perfect. Thank you.”</p><p>“Of course.” Alice smiles back, and Claire laughs a little breathlessly, feeling like she was standing a little too close to the sun. Alice felt like that a lot; too good, too much to look at directly, but Claire still craved her in every second, like something she’d die without. </p><p>“You should go,” she whispers. “The sooner you tear down Umbrella, the sooner I get you back.”</p><p>“Mm. Just one more minute. I want to look at you.”</p><p><em> God </em> , Alice <em> wrecked </em> her, said these impossibly tender little things that made her warm and cozy to her <em> bones </em>. Like the world ended outside Alice’s wings and this was all that was, all that mattered; two weary souls and the skin between them, helping each other shine a little brighter. </p><p>“Take a picture,” she laughs. “It’ll last longer.”</p><p>“I did,” Alice replies, patting the breast of her coat, from where she’d pulled the parcel out before. “But I like the real thing better.”</p><p>“Flirt,” Claire accuses, but it comes out a little too choked, and she buries her face in Alice’s shoulder again, holding the polaroids tight to her chest.</p><p>“I <em> did </em> warn you.”</p><p>
  <em> No, you didn’t. Not for this.  </em>
</p><p>But she’s not mad. It’s a weight in her heart she’s glad to carry. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The Umbrella complex is surrounded by fifteen-foot-high walls of solid concrete. It’s more than enough to keep out the undead, but it’s also a significant deterrent even to the still-winged living. Without any high points in the landscape near enough to glide from, the compound is nigh-impenetrable. </p><p>Unless you happen to have a whole thirty feet of wingspan and a running start. </p><p>Alice still elects to start from the rock outcropping— any free height was a bonus, after all. She readies herself at the base, wings spread open and milling in the air, warming up. The sight easily eclipses the dread in Claire’s gut. Alice is <em> magnificent </em>, the raw power and physicality of her form on full display, every single muscle of her body engaged and coordinating to control the strength of her wings. Her feathers fill Claire’s vision; pinions and coverts and down, vast plains of plumes in sweeping, curved shapes, sleek and shiny in the harsh desert light. They ripple over the muscle underneath, and the urge to reach out and map each inch with her hands is strong, but they don’t have time. (Nor the privacy, but Claire’s almost to the point of making an exception, this close to her departure).</p><p>“Everyone’s packed and ready,” Carlos reports. “Now we just see how much airpower we’re working with.”</p><p>Alice nods, giving her wings another powerful roll. “If there’s more than one ‘copter, I’ll signal you, and Claire will take a glide from the cliff. I can give you a boost, but there’s a bit of wind, so you should be able to catch an updraft.”</p><p>She turns to Claire, pulling her wings half-in; mostly closed but still hanging around her. “You ready for this?”</p><p>“Yeah.” She’s been readying her wings as well, though she’d been distracted by Alice’s display. Still, there are a lot of things making her tremble with nervous energy— flying, the compound, Alice, Alaska. But all she can do is focus on the moment. “Whenever you are.”</p><p>Alice grins. “Alright. And remember, if I see you need a boost, I’ll come up from below. Then just follow off my wing.”</p><p>She nods. She’s familiar with tandem flying; on good days she and Chris (or cousins, during family get-togethers) would soar for hours side-by-side. </p><p>One last flash of her trademark, cheshire-cat smirk, and Alice spins on her heels, wings flaring open at her sides. She takes off at a sprint towards the cliffside, wings slowly starting to pump up and down as she picks up speed. She’s already catching air by the time she reaches the edge of the rock and <em> leaps </em> , flinging herself from the ledge and into the open. Her wings beat once, twice, <em> hard </em>, churning the air into a maelstrom as they bear her up and into the sky, rising above them and heading towards the compound. </p><p>Carlos whistles, impressed. “She’s somethin’ else, isn’t she,” he murmurs.</p><p>Claire looks out over the desert, watches Alice’s form grow smaller with distance. “She really is.”</p><p>It takes Alice roughly ten minutes to make a pass over the compound and return, swooping over the caravan and letting out a shrill whistle as she swings back around towards their target. </p><p>Claire’s heartbeat immediately begins to thunder in her chest. She shoots one last glance towards Carlos before opening her own wings and starting her sprint towards the cliff. She starts beating them early; she’s a condor, suited for long bouts of soaring and not fast, powerful flight like Alice’s hawkish form, so she needs to build up as much momentum and power as she can to get airborne. Her wings scoop up the air beneath her with every downward stroke, feeling out the unfamiliar movements of liftoff. Her wing muscles aren’t as strong as they once were— she has to really push herself, bodily force her limbs to move to their fullest extent. She’s reaching the cliff, coming up fast, but she doesn’t have enough lift— she’s the wrong shape, too out of practice, nervous and shaken. She’s fifty feet away; sees Alice in the air up to her right, tracking her progress. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. She drives herself forward, limbs pumping like pistons, pushing harder, faster. Ten. Not enough. Three more steps— she’s at the cliff edge. </p><p>She leaps.</p><p>She feels the air under her, a buoyant bubble cradled in the natural curve of the wing, lifting her up. She flaps, and the bubble shifts accordingly, adjusting as the leading edge cuts through the air and drags her up and over. Her primaries flick and balance her trajectory, as sensitive to the currents as her fingers in water. </p><p>She’s <em> flying—  </em></p><p>Until she’s <em> not </em>.</p><p>The air is dead and shattered, chopped up by Alice’s powerful strokes, and Claire can't get a handle on it, the wind rushing through her feathers without catching. She flails for a moment, wrestling down her panic. All she had to do was settle into a glide, and she could land safely; she had <em> wings </em>, for chrissake, she wasn’t going to fall to her death. </p><p>But the sky is unruly; Claire hasn’t flown in so long, and she’s certainly never encountered air like this before. The <em> Earth itself </em> has never seen wings like Alice’s, not even in the time before fossils. Claire looks around, panic rising, searching for the blonde— she said she’d give her a boost, but she was probably expecting Claire to be better than this, to manage more than <em> two measly seconds </em> of flight before needing help. She was likely too far off, already ahead—</p><p>A drag like riptide tears at her wings for a terrifying second before Alice bursts out from under her, seizing her arms in an iron grip and zooming upwards, yanking Claire up with her. Claire instinctively tucks her wings just as Alice makes a powerful downstroke into their space, the tips of her wings so long they almost meet behind Claire’s back. Then they pull back and over Alice’s shoulders, her chest rippling with concentrated effort before she makes another stroke, launching the two of them higher and higher into the heavens. </p><p>Claire’s weight barely seems to affect her; the sky bends eagerly to Alice’s will, bearing them wherever she wishes, responding to the slightest twitch of her feathers. Regardless of her loathing for her wings, in the air, Alice looks absolutely in her element; unbound, free, the wind incarnate. Transcendent. </p><p>“Hey,” Alice says, obscenely casual, as though picking people up mid-flight was a normal occurrence for her.</p><p>“Hi,” Claire replies, breathless and a bit too stunned to manage more.</p><p>“There’s an updraft a little further ahead. Can you feel it yet?”</p><p>She opens her wings slightly, just enough to feel the shape of the wind under her feathers. The desert air is still and dead, and Alice’s powerful strokes churn it into a chaotic mess, but— <em> yes </em>, she can feel the currents, hazy yet growing clearer the higher they climb. </p><p>“I feel it,” she says. </p><p>Alice nods, working her hands down Claire’s arms until they’re holding at her wrists. “One more boost, and then we should be able to glide to the compound. There’s two helicopters— we’ll each fly one out. We need to be fast, before they can raise the alarm.”</p><p>“Got it.” She looks down; she can just barely make out the contents of the compound: one large building with a couple accessory shacks, a sort of trench, and two helicopters parked aside. And, of course, the swarming throng of undead outside the walls, but the whole point of this plan was to avoid them. </p><p>So she looks up instead; sees Alice, and finds herself smiling on reflex. It was damn pavlovian at this point— she can’t help it, the way her lips curl whenever the blonde comes into view. Alice smiles back, pulls Claire closer—<em> god </em> she was strong—and presses a gentle kiss to her lips, lingering too long to be dismissed as offhand. </p><p>“Ready?” </p><p>
  <em> Not really. </em>
</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Then let’s go.” One final beat of her wondrous wings, and then Alice releases her to the outstretched hands of the sky. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>*</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Twin helicopters touch down without much trouble, whipping the sand into a haze as they land. Claire had been worried when she and Alice hit the ground running at the compound, but Chris’s flight lessons had come back to her as soon as she surveyed the controls. His voice echoed in her mind, phantom touches guided her hands over the console, and the machine had quickly roared to life beneath her.</p><p>The rest of the caravan stands to the side, holding supplies and meager personal belongings. They couldn’t take much; they’d have to essentially start over when they landed. Blades still whirring above them, Claire shoves open the side door and immediately helps herd survivors into the aircraft, stacking bags wherever they’d fit. Beside them, Alice steps out of her craft, Carlos ready to take her place. Claire yearns to jump out and run to her one last time, but she holds back; she doesn’t know if she could bring herself to leave Alice’s arms again. </p><p>Carlos gives his dashboard a quick check and then throws a thumbs-up to Claire. She turns to her passengers, noting K-Mart in the copilot seat. </p><p>“Everyone in?”</p><p>A chorus of nods and affirmatives from the group.</p><p>“Alright, let’s get airborne. Hold on.”</p><p>The copter lifts off without much trouble, the controls mostly familiar to her now. A few of the survivors, particularly the younger ones, wave at Alice as they rise, and she gives a half-wave back, a slight raise of her hand. Claire can’t pull away from the controls; all she can do is stare meaningfully back at the blonde, trying to funnel all her conflicting emotions into the look. There’s too much unsaid, not enough time; all she can hope to impart is just how much she wished the woman was still at her side. </p><p>Alice stares back, gives her a brisk, two-finger salute and a firm nod. Her wings are partially open, braced against the buffeting wind from the copter’s blades. They tremble against the craft’s power, but a second later, a determined expression passes over Alice’s face and her wings snap out, opening to their full spread within the fledgling sandstorm. Their huge span immediately catches the gale of the aircraft, tearing her back a few steps, but she digs in, squaring her feet and resolutely holding her wings open against the wind. </p><p><em> What the hell is she doing? </em> </p><p>Alice’s wings were the most powerful she’d ever seen, but their size was downright dangerous facing such strong winds; the strength and effort required to withstand the drag was undoubtedly— ahem—superhuman. Yet she stood, wings strained wide open, staring back at Claire with as much intensity as the redhead had towards her.</p><p>She flounders, at a loss with this odd new display. </p><p><em> Display </em> . <em> Huh.  </em></p><p>Oh- </p><p>
  <em> Oh.  </em>
</p><p>Alice was fucking <em> presenting </em> . To her. Here, <em> now </em>, of all times. </p><p>Indignant fury immediately roars in her ears— almost a month with the caravan, with <em> Claire </em> , and <em> now </em> she chose to do this? To- to <em> confess </em> in all but word, in front of <em> everyone </em>, sending Claire off into the unknown right before she walked to her own potential death?</p><p>It hurts like goddamn hell, but what’s <em>more</em> painful is the fact that Claire <em> can’t reply. </em> Her wings are pinned back by the seat-harness, no matter that her entire mind and body are <em> screaming </em>to spread them in answer. All she can do is stare desperately at Alice as she pulls away, a strangled noise in her throat, everything she wants to say forced to speak through her gaze. </p><p>She watches as Alice gets smaller and smaller in her view; stares for as long as she can until she eventually has to tear her eyes away to focus on their flight, but the image of <em> Alice presenting </em> stays with her long after the real thing disappears from view. So does the bittersweet feeling, a burning, clawing sort of happiness that seeps through to her bones. </p><p>Alice had never been easy to care for; she should’ve known that loving her would be no different. Claire had poured herself into the other woman, and after everything they’d said and done, she just had to trust in Alice’s promise to come back— after all, Alice would never lie to her. </p><p>Nor would she ever abandon what was hers. And Claire <em> was </em> hers, claimed wholly and completely, but Alice had given herself in return; had handed Claire her heart the moment she spread her wings. </p><p>Alice <em>would</em> come back. There was nothing Claire believed in more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>so now you gotta ask yourself: what kind of author am I? And how much is Arcadia going to hurt?<br/>oh well. guess you'll have to wait and see ;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. to roost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HEYO im sorry this took so long. college, huh? but this is a Juicy 15k words so hopefully you forgive me? yes?</p><p>gosh I can't believe we're at the end! wowza! Thank you so, so much to everyone who's commented, kudo'd, bookmarked etc-- it means the world to me, really. This is the first long-form narrative I've finished, let alone published. I'm so glad that y'all have enjoyed this so much.<br/>And of course, my eternal and undying love/graciousness to SeventhStrife, without whom this fic certainly would never have gotten past 300 words, or probably even existed in the first place. You are the greatest most amazing person and im SO so so glad we met.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They weren’t alone in Alaska; that was clear long before they landed. Red flares had gone up as soon as they neared the coordinates, and they follow the smoke-trails to a large clearing, littered with planes and other aircraft. Most of it looks abandoned, but a few figures walk among the empty hulls, waving their arms to get the pilots’ attention. The caravan lands a ways aside, almost on the beach. Claire’s hands leave the controls reluctantly, settling on her holstered pistol, a cautionary hold on the grip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone yells; muffled and distant, and her hold tightens as she watches the edge of the airfield. She can see movement, feet walking between the landing gear, slowly working towards them. K-Mart and the rest of the passengers are tense and silent behind her, ready to run.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, a figure emerges from the metal forest. An older man, bearded, in blue jeans and a thick, wooly coat. His hands are mittened but empty; his hunting rifle strapped across his back. Nothing like the Umbrella agents they had seen in Nevada, but they couldn’t be sure anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you here for Arcadia?” He calls out, voice echoing across the field.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” Claire returns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man stops, raises his arms in a calming gesture, his small, white wings spreading likewise behind him. “I’m David Thompson. I’m kind of the mayor of this little town. And I guess that makes y’all new residents.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire doesn’t take her hand off the gun. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it really this easy</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Then again, what choice did they have?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Claire Redfield,” she says at last. “We’ve come a long way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Claire,” repeats David. “Rest assured, you and your people are safe now. Welcome to Arcadia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, twenty-three people stepped out and into a life they had nearly forgotten. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are already thirty-two survivors living in Arcadia, a reclaimed suburb off the edge of Juneau, the capitol. Combined with the remains of Claire’s caravan, they totaled a healthy fifty-five. David, as he introduced himself, had apparently settled here with his own group about two years ago, and had been broadcasting ever since; this had drawn in about a third of their population. It was, Claire admitted to herself, disappointingly small—their numbers were less than what her own caravan had once been, but the journey was difficult, and there was only so far that the broadcast could stretch. And to be fair—it was five years after the end of the world. The population of humanity was only going down. And yet against all odds, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>had made it. They would do more than survive; they would </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The caravan survivors meld relatively seamlessly into the rhythm of Alaska. They are all a bit fidgety at first—unused to staying still, feeling antsy without a constantly changing landscape, but eventually they realized what a treasure that was; that they could stay still, they could set roots, and it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That the sight of the undead was a rarity, that animals were relatively common. That their thoughts were finally more often filled with the living rather than the dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire claims a house for her and K-Mart—she wasn’t letting the teen out of her sight anytime soon, and she had promised her a bunk bed, anyways—and with only slight resistance, Carlos ends up setting up shop with them too. With both him and K-Mart there, the house almost doesn’t feel empty. They’re usually busy working all day, but in the evenings, when one of the adults makes dinner—</span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> dinner, still a novelty—and K-Mart does her reading—</span>
  <em>
    <span>school? In the apocalypse?</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’d always complain—it’s nearly normal. And yet it’s still just shy of perfect, and that’s the only reason Claire doesn’t pinch herself in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because every day she wakes up and the other pillow on the bed is untouched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cried the first night she slept in her bed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Her</span>
  </em>
  <span> bed, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> bed. Before she even got in, she washed and scrubbed until her skin was raw— had cried in the showers as well, nearly overwhelmed by the sensation of so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>water</span>
  </em>
  <span>— and yet still felt horribly filthy when she slipped between the covers. She’d forced herself to strip down to a tank top and sleep shorts; even though sleeping in something other than her normal, day-to-day clothes was a foreign, uncomfortable idea, the thought of sullying the clean white sheets with any sort of dirt was infinitely more terrifying. So much more </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like even one stain would prove she didn’t deserve it, and at any moment it’d be ripped away and revealed for the sham it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she knows this is no dream. If it were, Alice would be the one slipping into her bed each night, not just K-Mart when she can’t sleep alone. If this were merely a pleasurable illusion, Claire would need no blanket except Alice’s wings, would not hesitate at all to lay naked and vulnerable if only Alice was there to hold her, her arms a more secure bastion than any wall or moat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she isn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Claire just has to move forward, to shoulder the new weight the blonde’s absence has lain on her shoulders; the way it always makes her feel off-center and unbalanced. She of course relishes in all the new niceties that life on the desert road had not provided: showers, food, security— but the whole time, the urge to turn to the side, to smile at someone who wasn’t there, haunts her. On the night she couldn’t help gorging on stew and ended up regretting it, Alice should’ve been the one holding her hair back, not Carlos. The first time she took a hunting rotation, Alice should’ve been walking silently beside her through the taiga. The day Claire found out K-Mart couldn’t swim and insisted on teaching her, cold water be damned, Alice should’ve been there to laugh and help, and probably ogle at Claire’s swim trunks while she was at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s unbelievable to Claire, just how quickly Alice had become integral to her life. How effortlessly she had slotted into it, had become something vital to her. Her absence is an ache Claire thought she would be prepared for; even the once-bleeding wound of Chris’s loss had slowly healed over into an ugly scar. But she had forgotten just how much this kind of injury hurt when it was fresh; how every movement tore and reopened it, a constantly weeping reminder of what had been ripped away from her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there’s little she can do about it; she just washes every night and preens her wings every other, and after months of slipping alone between her sheets, she learns to stop hoping that they’ll be warm in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she pours herself into her work. Though the area was technically settled two years ago, there was still plenty of work to be done; Alaska is a harsh environment, and weathering it takes as much effort as withstanding the undead. Claire and the caravan had arrived at the beginning of spring, sometime in March or April (it was hard to be sure nowadays), and there was much to be done to prepare for summer. Wildlife was far more plentiful in this north, but they’d need more than just deer and rabbits to sustain them. To supplement their diet, they set up greenhouses and farmed, growing seeds they scavenged in the capital. There was much to be gained from Juneau— less undead to begin with, and those that were still stuck in the city were sluggish and stiff with the cold. And while they’d thaw somewhat in the summer, hence the focus to scavenge while the weather was cold, it was markedly safer than in the desert, where the heat had kept the undead’s blood supple in their veins. Scavenging work was the thing Claire liked best—putting hands in the earth and growing new life was comforting, and the silence of hunting in the woods a lost comfort, but out in the field—that was where Claire thrived. There was little time to think when scavenging; all your senses had to be turned outwards, not inside, to constantly watch your surroundings. Even slowed by the cold, undead were still dangerous, especially now that they seemed to be mutating. Claire hadn’t seen anything like the scythe-winged man again, at least not in the field; but he haunted her dreams enough to make up for it. She could only guess that the lack of prey or stimuli left the Alaskan undead with no reason to change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she keeps her eyes peeled for any sign of the undead; it’s better than hopelessly watching the skies and praying for new arrivals.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even when she hears a plane engine roaring for the first time in ages, she can’t bring herself to get her hopes up. It’s December now, nearly eight months since Nevada. Eight months since Alice had run into the belly of the beast, never to be seen again. In that time, two more groups of survivors had managed to join them, adding eleven members to the growing community. Each was an invaluable miracle, but seeing each new </span>
  <em>
    <span>unfamiliar </span>
  </em>
  <span>face just twists the knife between her ribs. Hell, she was practically used to it by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So on the freezing December morning when a plane roars over Arcadia and sets the town abuzz with excitement over its arrival, Claire merely ducks her head down and finishes lacing up her boots. She was on a hunting rotation today. The plane likely scared off the nearby wildlife, which means she’ll have to walk even further from home base to find something. She doesn’t really mind; it would take a long walk anyway to keep her mind from stewing over the disappointment of this morning’s arrivals. She’ll miss her planned afternoon flight by the cliffs, but such was life. Finishing her boots with one last tug, she rises, retrieves her bow, arrows, and hunting rifle just in case. Bullets were deemed a precious resource, but the undead were also deemed worthy of them. Anything else would take a steel point to the heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stands just as the sounds of distant commotion reach her ears; yelling, quickly growing louder. She unslings her rifle, checks it’s loaded, and crosses to the door, opening onto the front porch. Their house is situated on the main street, though further down from the town ‘entrance’ where it abuttted the airfield; she has time to watch what’s coming. Carlos was always out and about earlier than her, and he’s no doubt already checking in on the disturbance, but K-Mart’s still asleep in her room, and Claire is loath to leave the teenager unprotected, no matter how skilled she’d become with a gun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The commotion grows louder, though it’s lower-pitched, not quite so surprised, and a moment later, its source rounds the corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dozen or so upset survivors, hounding a lone, silent figure; a woman with massive wings. She’s dressed in an odd, slick black military uniform, and her hair is styled differently, but Claire would recognize those piercing, blue eyes anywhere. She’s spent enough time staring into them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice strides forward, undaunted by the clucking swarm around her. They hardly even seem to be there, the way she walks, unperturbed by their demands for answers—who is she, why’s she here with a plane like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>? When she comes to a stop a few feet in front of the porch, the mob seems to at last realize that they are nothing to her, not compared to Claire, and they withdraw, buzzing a little way off. David is in the crowd, and even his usually calm demeanor is slightly upset. He meets her eyes and Claire forces her fingers to unclench from the rifle and raises a calming hand. The crowd instantly quiets down; even in Arcadia, Claire was respected for her judgement, and evidently she trusted this new stranger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which leaves Alice and Claire with nothing but to stare at each other, faces tense. Keenly aware of the crowd’s eyes on them, of the weight of everything left unsaid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire speaks first, pushing through the equal measures of anger and relief the other woman’s presence evokes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice.” The name feels odd on her tongue now. “Been a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Alice rasps. Her voice is rough, but not as much as Claire expected. Still, the words hang awkwardly in her throat, and she glances uncomfortably at the crowd. “Can… May I come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire opens her mouth to agree immediately, but something holds her tongue. She probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to, but for all that her body aches to come home and roost in Alice’s arms again, the wound in her heart is not yet healed, and its edges pull and bleed with every thunderous beat. Opening the door, letting Alice in… it’s just going to reopen it and spill it all over the damn floor, open and at the mercy of the woman whose confession had cut it in the first place, then left without a word for near a year. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she doesn’t want to let her in, because as soon as she does, whatever words come out of her during the emotional fit that’s sure to come on once they’re within five feet of each other will determine whether Alice ever looks her in the eyes again. And Claire honestly doesn’t know whether it would hurt more to crawl into bed alone tonight or to wake up and still be warm. To finally have... Everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sets her jaw, readies herself to rebuff the woman at her doorstep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” she says instead. “Come in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice blinks like she hadn’t heard the words at first. Then she lurches into motion, stepping up onto the porch, past Claire, and into the house, wings tucked in close. And Claire, damn her, just shoos the crowd off, turns around, and closes the door behind her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Want something to drink?” Claire asks. “Water’s on tap. Still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shakes her head. “I’m not thirsty.” A beat. Tense. “You still have plumbing? I thought the pipes would burst, given the temperatures here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s avoiding any sort of personal topic, painfully obviously, but Claire doesn’t know what to say either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some did,” she replies. “Some less so. They all needed work, but many of the houses are on wells, so it’s a bit easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice nods, leaning back against the counter. It’s… fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>bizarre </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see her there. Alice, actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alice</span>
  </em>
  <span>,</span>
  <em>
    <span> in her kitchen</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just… resting against the cabinets. She looks good, much as it pains Claire to admit it; her once-bony form is now filled in—she’d been adequately fed, wherever she’d been. Her hair’s grown out, too, now fully brunette, longer and tucked behind her ears. It’s leagues better than the ragged half-blonde mop she’d had in the desert. Her clothes are different; baggy, black military wear, though lacking much of the external gear she’d expect. Just a shirt, pants, boots, and a belt, with some conspicuous tears where patches must have originally been. Her wings, still massive, still breathtaking, fill up the room between the counter and the island; they seem so much bigger in an enclosed space, but she tries her best to make them smaller, to hide them behind her. And Claire hates it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she still cares so goddamn much. That she’s still trying to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>polite</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long are you here for?” Claire asks, because if Alice is just stopping by for a sick version of a check-in, she wants to know before she flays her heart open again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice’s brows knit together, confused. “I’m not leaving. My work is finished.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your </span>
  <em>
    <span>work</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What, did you pick up a gig in Nevada? Let me guess, Umbrella wanted their security chief back.” It’s a low blow, and she knows it; Alice looks away for a moment, then back, open and hurt and pleading.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came back. Isn’t that what you wanted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I certainly didn’t want you to take </span>
  <em>
    <span>eight months</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do it!” She tries not to shout, but the venom slips so easily between her teeth, raising the hackles at her neck as it flows. “I started to think you weren’t coming. No word of you for months. Just Alaska and the cold. We’re lucky David and the others were already here, because I sure as hell wasn’t able to be a leader when we landed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Alice whispers. It doesn’t help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>left</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, Alice. And I know, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you had to, but-” she lets out a harsh breath, fists a hand in her hair. Her wings flick behind her, agitated. “After all this time… I had to accept that you were probably dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Claire—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Eight months</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Two hundred and sixty-three </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> days!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice freezes. “You counted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I fucking counted,” Claire snaps. “How could I not? There wasn’t a day that went by where you didn’t haunt it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words seem to stun Alice; she stands stock-still, mouth hanging open, whatever she might’ve said shot dead on her tongue. But they take all of the fire out of Claire’s own veins, too. Suddenly, she feels incredibly drained; her hackles drop and all she wants is to take a very, very long nap. But she can’t, of course. She sighs and turns around, walking towards where she’d set aside her bow and rifle as she came in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m on hunting rotation today,” she says flatly. “I can’t—I have to go. K-Mart’s still asleep, and Carlos is out. I’ll be back in a few hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice has returned to her wits enough that it looks like she wants to say more, but she holds her tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” she says slowly. “Later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire walks out the door and definitely does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> run away into the woods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If the plane had not already scared off every animal in a five-mile radius, Claire’s foul mood would certainly have done the trick; it hangs low and muggy around her, a thick cloud that blackens everything it touches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only because of this, because she hasn’t seen a trace of any living creature for the last two hours that Claire allows herself to kick a fallen log and let out a short, choked scream. The wood goes skittering down the hill, crashing through powdery snow, but the petty outburst doesn’t soothe her even a little bit, and she berates herself for being childish. She sinks onto the edge of a broken stump, burying her head in her hands and letting her wings slump to the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice is back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isn’t this exactly what she wanted? It’s the answer to her grit-toothed prayers, the end of her lonely nights, the missing piece of herself she’s been yearning for all this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It only took her eight goddamn months to get it. The number rings in her ears, a taunting echo. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eight months</span>
  </em>
  <span> that Claire worked and waited, that she spent surrounded by more people than ever before and yet utterly alone. Day after day of an almost half-life; seeing all the new joys that Arcadia had to offer and yet living always with the thought that she’d never be complete, that she’d always lack that final piece.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now she has it. So why can’t she accept it? Why can’t she just run to Alice and let the woman fold her into her arms and forget their interlude like it was just a bad dream? Hell, when Claire first saw her, she’d nearly flung open her wings to present right back, as if no time at all had passed. And she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alice would meet her, would confess again without hesitation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She just— she groans, grinds her teeth together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’ll never admit it aloud, but she’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared</span>
  </em>
  <span>— still </span>
  <em>
    <span>was— </span>
  </em>
  <span>that no matter whether Claire could scrape together a normal, safe life in Alaska, it wouldn’t compare to that terrifying, exhilarating, heavenly month she’d spent with Alice in Nevada. That she’d never manage to find anything else that could even come close, no matter how long she survived. The highlight of the rest of her miserable existence would consist of fumbling hands in the back of a Hummer and sharing the ends of cigarettes. And that would be it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Look— Claire’s thirty-two now. Twenty-seven of those years had been spent in relative happiness; occasionally spare, when times were lean, but she’d had her family and her brother, and that was all she needed. She’d been happy at her job; being a mechanic wasn’t glorious work, but it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>honest</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and she liked to see that her hands were making an obvious difference in the world, however small. She was even starting to think about the future, about trying to find someone and settle down. While she hadn’t been all that out and around town, Claire was a romantic at heart, and she’d always hoped the day would come when clocking out of the garage meant she came home to her spouse and their kid. Kids. A home. Family. Chris would visit on the weekends, and they’d do barbecue. She’d mark heights against the doorframe and keep their down feathers in a jar and have to go to a couple extra parent-teacher conferences because the little daredevils thought that having the biggest wings in their grade meant they could fly. Just... simple. Happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except now, she’s living in Alaska of all places, hunting her dinner with a bow and arrow, for a teenager named </span>
  <em>
    <span>K-Mart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the closest thing she has to a partner just showed up out of the blue after walking into a deathtrap over half a year ago. All this in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>how she pictured things going. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And yet that’s how it is</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She sighs again and draws her wings up around herself, hiding like a child beneath the long red feathers. They’ve always been her comfort, her failsafe, and this is no different. They don’t bring her any closer to the answer, but Claire’s pretty sure she already knows what it is. It’s never changed; it’s just going to take a while to accept it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three more hours of stalking through the woods nets her a single, wiry hare, but it’s better than nothing. She doesn’t bother dressing it in the field; skinning it at home will give her hands something to do while she inevitably faces Alice again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she finally returns, the brunette is practically still where Claire left her; standing at the edge of the kitchen, having just gotten up from the couch in the adjacent family room. Carlos and K-Mart are tucked into an armchair and said couch, respectively. They both sit up straight as soon as Claire walks in, a line of tension immediately stretching across the room. Claire pointedly ignores the hitched curve of Alice’s wings as she walks past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bad hunting today,” she announces. “Plane scared everything off. But I got enough for a stew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her companions nod silently. Claire busies herself setting out a tray and her knives, getting ready to skin and butcher her kill. She doesn’t mind the mess and gore except for the cleaning of it. Alice watches as she works, first separating the hide from muscle, then removes the organs, trims the excess fat, and finally divides the rabbit into cuts. She moves with practiced efficiency, having quickly learned her way around the butcher’s knife. Alice follows along, and surprisingly, her gaze doesn’t weigh on Claire; it’s light as it observes her fingers dancing over the carcass. There’s questions lying unasked on her tongue; Claire’s guessing that she hadn’t been hunting over the interlude, given her curiosity. But Alice doesn’t ask, not yet, and she’s grateful; she’s still tired from her introspection and hike. Once the stew is going, maybe then they can talk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They have some fresh produce available to them, mostly leafy greens and roots this late into the winter, but for the most part, they work from preserves and jarred foods to help spread the harvest. She has some carrots stored from the fall, though, and works those into the stew. Surprisingly, they’re not lacking seasonings; tight jars kept in dry areas kept spices near-perfectly preserved, though with time they had lost some of their potency. Still, it means that they no longer lack for flavor; another thing Claire’s incredibly grateful for. It reminds her of how ancient societies traded salt like money, and she thinks she understands. Salt is a magic substance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tension in the room eases as she works, clearly tuning out the other occupants, so they return to quiet conversation. It’s mostly Carlos summarizing everything that had happened since Alice left: the journey, settling in, daily life. David, their ‘mayor’, town meetings every month and the chore rotations. Some more personal things trickle in, like how K-Mart’s been allowed to practice her marksmanship at their makeshift range, or the cove that Claire found that’s perfect for diving, even though the water’s freezing. Carlos occasionally tries to glean details of Alice’s disappearance, but Alice steers him away each time, glancing back towards the kitchen. Not that Claire’s watching her—she’s very much ignoring everything in the family room, thank you. She dawdles over the stew until there’s nothing more she can do, and she reluctantly slinks out of the kitchen and into the family room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s relatively modest; a table in front of the fireplace, the couch and armchair bracketing it. Claire had been meaning to find another chair for the room, and maybe a thicker rug, but she’d been busy, and hadn’t had time to go out looking. Carlos has claimed the armchair as per usual, while Alice and K-Mart are at the ends of the sofa. So unless she wants to very obviously eschew them and sit on the floor, she has to slot in next to Alice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. She’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> petty, she can be perfectly reasonable and sit next to the woman. But as soon as she starts towards the couch, K-Mart, bless her, scoots over next to Alice, opening up the other end for Claire. She takes it gratefully, trying not to let the relief show on her face— Alice would </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely </span>
  </em>
  <span>see it, and she doesn't want to offend her, but she’s just… not ready yet. Touching Alice, in her experience, was almost always a sensual act; they’d kept their hands to themselves otherwise, outside the Hummer. Claire just doesn’t need more thoughts of Alice rattling around in her head, and brushing against her would be the worst thing for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She settles into the couch and hangs her wings over the back, letting them relax while being careful not to touch Alice’s, which swamp the other end of the sofa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dinner’s in an hour,” she says. “Do you want to talk right now or tomorrow?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shrugs. “Now’s fine, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then go ahead.” She leans back, crossing her arms and prepping for what had better be a damn good explanation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice glances at her and then away, flitting across the room with nervous energy. A long minute passes while she collects her thoughts, and then she begins to detail just what had kept her away for so long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>First and foremost, Isaacs was dead. Mutated nearly beyond recognition, and certainly diced past it. They’d burned his body as well, incinerated the remains to ensure it couldn’t heal. And it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was ‘</span>
  </em>
  <span>they’— clones, apparently. As if Umbrella’s feats weren’t ridiculous enough. But no, they’d decided the best course of action to study Alice was to clone her, ad nauseum, until they replicated her unique bond with the virus. Evidently, it hadn’t worked, but there were still over a hundred viable clones of Alice, each a less-powerful but still infected and dangerous copy of her. Their memories only extended as far as the Detroit labs, at most; others remembered little save the specific scenes impressed upon them during their creation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire can’t quite believe her at first, but the longer Alice continues, the less she doubts the woman. Each word that comes from her lips is more unbelievable than the last, and yet she speaks with such honest conviction that Claire knows she’s telling the truth. Besides, Alice knows that exaggeration would get her nowhere with Claire; these were unembellished facts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After her climactic fight with Isaacs, the first few months of their separation had been spent training and organizing the clones, as well as gathering intel and making plans. Then they mobilized, sending strike teams into each of the Hives around the world, activating the failsaves within, and erasing them from the face of the earth. Even if there were survivors, their facilities were gone, turned to dust. The clones held the last, the Nevada facility, like a fortress, protected by a legion of Alices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re watching over the world for the next three years, making sure Umbrella doesn’t recover,” Alice informs them. “After that, they’ll detonate Nevada too, and come up to Arcadia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought is dizzying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One hundred </span>
  <em>
    <span>clones</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, here with us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More or less,” Alice says. “There’s about seventy currently in Nevada. Another fifty are out scouting for other survivors. Three of my, uh, lieutenants are coming to check in on Arcadia in about a week, and then they’ll give the go-ahead to start bringing people up here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lieutenants?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We needed some kind of structure. It was better than writing numbers on everyone’s foreheads with a sharpie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire shakes her head, bewildered. “So, basically, you wiped Umbrella off of the map with an army of clones, who are eventually going to move in with us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Correct.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there anything else crazy but true that I missed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bit of a smile returns to Alice’s lips. “No, that’s about it. Although, one thing—I brought a big batch of antivirus with me. Forty vials.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire’s heart stops in her chest. “Antivirus?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s stronger than what Umbrella had before, too. Should work up to thirty-two hours after infection, not just a few.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She barely hears her; her mind is racing through the dozens of names she’s lost to the undead plague. How many could have been saved if they’d had the cure? How many less friends would she have buried? She forces herself to clear her head. The dead were gone. Now was the time of the living; this antivirus would help ensure it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s amazing,” she breathes. “It cures them? Fully?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They might be patchy-winged for a little while, but other than that, yeah, works like a charm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlos whistles softly. “I thought Angie had the last antivirus we’d ever see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She did,” Alice replies. “This is new, synthesized from my blood. It completely counteracts the T-virus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are the vials?” Claire asks, suddenly tense. Arcadia was a stable, rational town, but even reasonable people might become unpredictable in the face of a miracle cure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In my plane. I haven't unloaded it yet. But it’s biometrically locked, both the plane and the case. Nobody’s getting in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire nods. “We’ll have to tell David in the morning. Get them to Betty or someone else on the medical team. This is…” she lets out a breath. “Huge.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the least I can do,” Alice says. “As far as apologies go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The familiar, bittersweet ache blooms in her chest, and she looks over at Alice, shoved into the corner of the couch, deliberately leaning away from her, even with K-Mart between them. She doesn’t meet Claire’s eyes; just keeps staring down at the carpet. Again, the urge to reach out and touch her, comfort her, surges within Claire, but she tamps it down. Slow. She was taking this slow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can unload the plane first thing tomorrow. I assume you brought more than just antivirus with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mostly just supplies. They can go to whatever stock the town has. A lot of food, some ammunition. Shoes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can help take inventory,” Carlos offers. “I’ve been around there a lot recently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, about work shifts…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the conversation shifts into lighter territory, Claire glances over to the mantle clock and nearly starts in her seat. It’s just about seven o’clock; they’d been talking for nearly two hours. She stands immediately, shaking the numbness out of her legs and wings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soup’s ready,” she calls over her shoulder, grabbing bowls and a ladle to serve. “K-Mart, set the table please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner is a calm event; the ex-caravaners are appreciative as always of the fresh meal, but Alice digs in with relish, immediately asking for seconds as soon as she finishes her first bowl. Claire obliges with a knowing smile, and Alice thanks her sheepishly before eagerly ladling out more soup. It confirms her earlier thought; Alice must’ve been on rations and the like during her interlude, not home cooking. It’s oddly fitting; Alice never seemed the type to put much effort into things like dinner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they have at last eaten their fill (Alice restraining herself to only two bowls), Carlos cleans their dishes while Claire pours the rest into a tupperware and puts it away in the fridge. They’ve been working on the nearby hydroelectric plant, but it isn’t reliable yet, so they regularly haul ice from the lakes to keep perishables cold. She’s on shift for it tomorrow, and good thing, too; the block on the bottom shelf is looking worse for wear, pockmarked from sublimation. It’s difficult work, but that’s the kind she likes best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlos excuses himself as soon as he finishes the dishes, shooting a meaningful look at K-Mart as he leaves. She frowns at him for a moment before glancing back at the two other women in the kitchen, and, his meaning dawning upon her, hurriedly announces her own intent to go to bed. Claire rolls her eyes at their bluntness but takes it, wrapping the teen in a hug before sending her down the hall to her room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again left alone with Alice, her shoulders begin to grow weary, and she drops onto the couch again with a sigh. Alice follows slowly, folding carefully into the armchair, her wings coming to rest on the floor around her, swallowing the furniture within their span. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire stares at her for a few minutes, reacquainting herself with the planes of Alice’s face, the curves of her shoulders and wings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last she speaks, though it is quiet, reluctant to break the relatively tranquil mood of the evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was there anything else I should know?” she questions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have the equipment to synthesize more antivirus with me. I was hoping you could keep it here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll have to build a shed or something for it, but yes. That’d be great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice nods, staring at the fireplace. It’s burning low; they’ll have to add a log soon if they’re going to stay up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that all?” Claire asks, a gentle prod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice glances back, expression unreadable. “I sent some of my best clones to LA. Specifically to find your brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lets out a quiet breath, not quite a gasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If he’s alive, they’ll do everything they can to get him up here. And even if he’s not, then they’ll still bring him back.” Alice watches her, gauging her stunned expression. “As long as you still want to see him. For closure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she blinks them back. “Thank you,” she says. “That’s… thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice nods again. “Like I said, it’s the least I can do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve done more than enough, Alice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really haven’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You came back. That’s all I really wanted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice looks away, into the flames across the room. “But I’m still late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, dragging a hand through her hair. “Yeah, you are pretty damn late. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes flick over, considering her for a long moment, then draw back, a shadow flitting across them. “You know, it hurt me just as much, to walk away. I thought of you every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shakes her head, a remorseful smile crawling over her face. “I could’ve flown here at any time. Almost did. Could’ve just opened my wings and headed north. But I made myself stay, made </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>I finished the job, because as selfish as I am, you deserve better— I couldn't return only halfway, always wondering whether our mission was complete. I couldn't come back until I stopped watching the horizon.” She opens her mouth as if to continue, then snaps her jaw shut with a click before pulling from her chair and sinking to her knees in front of Claire. She freezes, caught off guard by the submissive gesture, by their sudden proximity. Alice gazes up at her, imploring, the depths of her emotions fully on display. She always knew how to slip right past Claire’s defenses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Alice says, regretful but determined. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry, Claire. If I could have done it any faster, if I could have returned to you any sooner, I would have. But it’s done now, and I’m not leaving. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. If you still want me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her wings are trembling behind her, she can feel it; physically aching to spread open. Instead, she blinks back more tears, unsteady despite being sitting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I- It’s alright. I forgive you. Just—” she reaches out, cradles Alice’s cheek in her hand to reassure herself that she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>, actually here and in the flesh. Alice’s jaw clenches under her palm, trying not to lean desperately into the touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t leave me again. Stay here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Alice immediately agrees. “I will. I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire sighs, drawing her hand down over Alice’s shoulder before pulling back. It’s too much, too rich a sensation to sustain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You make too many promises,” she murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I always keep them,” Alice replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clair hums. “You do. Eventually.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Alice repeats once more, a rueful rasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Alice. What’s done is done, and it was for the greater good. Let’s just focus on the now. On what’s next.” Her reassurance is interrupted with a yawn, exhaustion creeping back over Claire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next would be going to bed, it seems,” Alice says with a knowing smile. She picks herself up from the floor, collecting her wings behind her. “I assume you don’t want me in your room.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A guilty blush rises to Claire’s cheeks. “It’s just… too soon. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll get a blanket and sleep on the couch, it’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose the couch is still better than the Hummer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s certainly better than a cot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire shakes her head, rising and walking to retrieve a comforter from the linen closet. “I pity your spine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice takes it, and Claire can’t decide whether she’s grateful that their hands don't touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well… Goodnight, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Claire.” Alice sits back down on the sofa, and Claire finds herself lingering in the hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>glad you came back,” she says, little more than a whisper. “I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice looks back at her, an understanding smile on her lips. “I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want you to think—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Claire. I left, and I hurt you. But I’m not going anywhere now. I’ll wait for as long as you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sucks in a little breath, nods mutely to save herself the embarrassment of wherever might come croaking out instead. She stares at Alice a little longer; memorizing the sight of her dusty wings draped over the red couch before finally having to turn away. The image lingers in her vision, dancing like a sunspot while she washes off and then crawls into bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she focuses, she can almost feel the ghost of Alice’s arms around her. She rolls over, reminds herself of the empty side of the bed, and passes out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Claire rises early the next morning, even before Carlos. Even though the winter temperatures barely rose above freezing during the day, it was still better to harvest ice before the sun could melt any slush on top. Sure footing was even more important than strength in this case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls on a thick wool sweater while she pads down the hall. She’d make some kind of breakfast and then head out as soon as she could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sight that greets her in the kitchen stops her in her tracks, however; nearly trips her on her own feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice is at the stove, an apron on over her black fatigues, staring perplexed at the pan. She has a brace of sausages set to the side; fresh venison links that Claire had bartered for just a few days ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in eight months, Claire actually pinches herself to make sure she’s not dreaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(She’s not.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning,” she calls out, and to her further surprise, Alice startles at the noise, wings flicking out defensively before her eyes refocus and see Claire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. Morning,” she says meekly, pulling her wings back in and trying not to look ruffled. “I wanted to make breakfast, but-” she looks back to the stove. “I realized I didn’t know what power the house had hooked up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles sheepishly and Claire has to force her heart to keep beating lest she keel over on the spot. She clears her throat, then gestures toward the other end of the house, to the backyard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re on a gasoline generator,” she explains. “Propane and natural gas are both out, and the guys at the plant haven’t gotten the motors working yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hydroelectric?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice nods thoughtfully. Then, “So can I make you breakfast, or—?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her heart lurches pitifully in her chest, warmth seeping through her. “Um, yeah, if- if you want,” she stutters. “I’ll show you the generator.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hardly twenty minutes later, they sit down to a meal of sausage and hash. The meat is well-seasoned, and the hash extra crispy, just how she likes it. The whole time, Claire has to keep reminding herself that she was actually awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you plan to do today?” If Alice was </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that meant Alice was </span>
  <em>
    <span>staying</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which meant she had to do things. Around town. Where Claire would likely see her. She really should have a better grasp on this idea, and yet it keeps surprising her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unload the plane,” Alice says, around a mouthful of potato. She swallows. “I can help you, if you want. Or I’ll just see the town, I guess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m hauling ice today. I definitely wouldn't turn down any assistance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t worry, I’m still as game as I was in Nevada. Hell, I’ve kind of been working out, if you count training.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire snorts around her fork. “So you’re a jock now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A real gym rat.” Alice smirks and leans back just enough to flex. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> even more toned, improbable as it is. Claire rolls her eyes at the display but damn her, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to look. So she doesn’t, instead shoving down the last bite of breakfast and scooting away from the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you’re done with the gunshow, we should head out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Alice’s voice has a note of disappointment in it, Claire doesn’t hear it; she’s already getting her boots on by the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bring a coat,” she says, pausing in the doorway. “It’s cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sure is.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Brisk and invigorating my ass</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Claire thinks, rubbing her gloved hands together. Chase is her partner for the hauling, and Claire’s grateful, because it takes Alice all of twenty minutes to announce she was ‘going to try something’ and bid them take a step back. So when Alice strides across the ice and takes a deep breath, her wings open loosely around her, and the ice </span>
  <em>
    <span>shatters</span>
  </em>
  <span> under her gaze, Claire doesn’t have to spend an hour consoling an unexpecting witness. Chase still looks gobsmacked for a minute, but then shakes his head as if he expected it all along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice grins, does a quarter turn, and refocuses. Another resounding </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack</span>
  </em>
  <span> echoes across the fjord, and the ice again splits into two, a yawning rend spearing through it, extending from in front of Alice to about fifty feet away. It’s an even cleaner line, a deep and sharp divide, cutting all the way through the cap and exposing the water below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s new,” Claire remarks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been practicing,” Alice says with a shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walks in 4-foot increments, making a cut each time she stops. These are much shorter, more precise, and after a few lengths, she turns the corner and repeats the process, slashing out a grid of cuts into the ice sheet. All told, the process takes maybe ten minutes before Alice walks back, arms spread as though to show off her work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s that?” She asks, grinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chase throws his hands up half-heartedly. “If I’d known you could do that, I’d’ve dragged you out of the desert myself! Woulda saved me a lotta back pain.” He thrusts the saw into Claire’s hands. “You young things can take care of this, I’m too old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re only fifty-six—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m old!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, but hefts the length of serated steel. “Fine. You’re still helping haul it back, old man or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waves her off and she steps carefully across the ice to meet Alice. When she gets close enough, she can see the brunette is panting slightly, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Concern immediately pinches her brows. “You alright?” She asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Alice replies, wiping a hand across her forehead. “It’s more difficult to be precise, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire inspects her a moment more, and, assured it’s really not that big an issue, moves on. They make relatively quick work of further dividing the ice chunks and stacking them onto sledges, wrapping them in tarps to protect them during transport. As she’s tying the corners together, she catches Alice wiping at her nose, and even though her fatigues are black, she can tell her sleeve is darkened with blood. It’s soaked enough that she must have been doing it for a while. Claire reaches out for a heartbeat before she catches herself, but the movement draws Alice’s attention anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, quietly enough that Chase won’t hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Alice says, looking up from her own tarp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re bleeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice looks back at her, puzzled. “I always bleed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but-” she sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I forgot how much.” She’d only seen her use her powers the one time, but she didn’t remember there being so much blood that day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No worries. I’m glad you still care.” Alice is grinning, but Claire immediately frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shrugs, turning to her tarp in an obvious deflection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t let it go. “Alice. Of course I care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You—” understanding dawns on her. “You don’t have to prove yourself again, or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not-” Alice’s hackles fluff out behind her shoulders, embarrassed. “I’m not. I know I don’t need to.” Her reactions are surprisingly open; it’s the mirror of her behavior of her first days at the caravan, awkward and unused to interaction, though now she’s too revealing instead of too clammed up. That’s what living with clones for a while did to your social skills, apparently; you had nothing to hide from yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire rolls her eyes, bemused. “I’ve forgiven you. You don’t need to work for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know!” Alice squawks. “I’m just being helpful!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The strength of her reaction says otherwise, but Claire lets it pass with a wry shake of her head. How very like Alice to need to reassure her worth with extravagant displays. Her mood sours slightly when she thinks of the self-pity that undoubtedly fuels her actions, but she banishes the feeling with another shake. Nothing that they couldn’t work on with more time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>True to her word or, more likely, simply more aware of her actions around Claire, Alice doesn’t try to show off as the week progresses. She helpfully shadows Claire when the redhead allows her to and gives her space when she asks for it. It’s painfully considerate at first, but Claire appreciates it immensely. And even when Alice is “off-duty”, she’s always doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She usually goes into town and assists where she can, hauling supplies around with her enhanced strength or clearing debris with her psychics. The townsfolk were understandably disturbed by this, but with enough cajoling and assurances from Claire and the caravan survivors, the residents of Arcadia come to accept and eventually welcome their ash angel. Once over their initial reservations, they quickly rope her into projects; her strength is greater than that of many men, and drastically aids in construction efforts that had been lacking in manpower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As busy as the town keeps her, one the rare occasions she’s neither conscripted nor following Claire, she’s assuredly deep in the taiga; Claire learns not to go looking for her. Instead, she waits at home until Alice inevitably returns, a rabbit or a brace of grouses in hand. They eat well that week, so much so that Claire has enough to barter away the extra in town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice takes the bundle of (relatively) new clothes with grateful surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she says, halfway like it's a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’re tired of your fatigues,” Claire replies. “I am.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice smirks. “Well, if a woman in uniform doesn’t do it for you, I can’t wait to put these sweatpants on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A giggle bursts out of Claire, surprising both of them. “I may have had ulterior motives,” she laughs, enjoying the mirth in Alice’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just as quickly as the warmth spreads through her, the cold reminder chases after it, and she forces herself to pull back, to tamp down her grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat. “You earned it. You hunted the meat that I traded for these, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice opens her mouth to reply, but the shift in demeanor makes her think better of it, and she just nods. It twists Claire’s gut painfully to see it, and more words spill past her lips; a sad effort to recapture the light mood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Although, if you keep shedding on a schedule like this, I’ll be able to stuff an entire down comforter. Think of how many pajamas that’d be worth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It earns her an amused sniff, but it still feels like another brick being torn out from the bridge between them. Every interaction seems to go that way now, and Claire curses herself once again for her clumsiness. Sooner or later, when she finally got over herself and went to cross that bridge, she was going to find it already torn down by her own hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, she needs to get over herself. She shuffles her feet, feeling awkward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you hear that Kenny’s managed to brew something resembling alcohol?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice perks up the slightest bit. “Yeah. He’s letting people taste it tomorrow night, and invited me. Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>; anyone who wants some.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire shrugs. “I need to preen tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice’s brows tweak together for a moment. “You do that a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like to be clean.” She tries not to sound defensive; she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> this habit was a bit compulsive. Alice was undoubtedly aware of her schedule by now; rinsing every night and preening nearly every other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She considers Claire for a moment then tentatively says, “If you’re going to wash beforehand too, I could warm the water for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire blinks in surprise. “Oh, that’s nice, but I wouldn’t want to waste the gasoline.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shakes her head. “I can control heat, as well. Fire, mostly,” she explains. “Your tub is cast-iron, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but—” Claire begins, preparing to turn down the offer but— why? Why should she keep doing this?  “I’d… I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” the hopeful note in her voice makes guilt pull at Claire again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Although— I don’t want to keep you from Kenny’s party, if-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shakes her head. “It’s not that important. It’d probably go to waste on me, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s only a waste if it tastes like shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckles, back to her grin. “Well, they’ll just have to manage without the advice of my sophisticated palette.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire rolls her eyes. “Tomorrow, then. At, say, eight? After dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I probably won’t be busy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She swipes half-heartedly at the other woman; Alice leans away just enough to dodge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ass,” she says; Alice grins, and for a moment, it feels like old times.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The day comes and passes, and by dinner, there’s a hint of nervous energy in her chest. Which is ridiculous, because literally all that’s happening is an offer to heat water, for god's sake, and yet something flutters in Claire’s gut like it’s their first date. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlos cooks that night, so Claire washes the dishes. She heads down the hall as soon as she finishes and finds Alice in her bathroom, water already drawn and steaming, and an orb of flame winding through the feet around the basin like a snake. It appears smokeless, but Alice has the window open anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up as Claire enters, and the flame spits and flickers for a moment before extinguishing, burning away to nothing in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you don’t mind me intruding,” Alice says. “I was going to ask before I entered, but I thought you wouldn’t want to wait for the water to draw </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> heat up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Yes, I would’ve liked knowing you were in here, but-” she sighs, lips curling with bemusement. “I still appreciate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps forward and dips her fingers into the water, and finds it hot to the touch, comfortably shy of scalding. Perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was fast,” she says, impressed. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing,” Alice replies, rising from where she’d been crouched on the tile floor. “But you’re welcome. Anything else before I leave you to it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is fine.” She flashes a grateful smile to the brunette, and Alice nods, closing the door on her way out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She immediately reaches for the hem of her shirt; her wings had been itchy and uncomfortable all day; the sort of feeling when you had </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough grime on your hands that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to wash them. It’s strongest between her shoulder blades; the hardest place for her to reach, despite her practice contorting her limbs for this purpose. She pops two buttons of her flannel before she pauses, biting her lip, considering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She probably shouldn’t. But she wants to. A full week—and then some—was long enough of the cold shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice?” she calls out, loud enough to hopefully carry down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A second later, she hears Alice shuffle back to the bathroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is something wrong?” she asks, muffled by the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire squeezes her lip again, then makes her decision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you help me preen? I can’t reach my shoulders very well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat of silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would that be alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m the one asking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A muffled laugh. “Yeah, you got me there. Let me know when you’re decent—or, in the tub, I guess? Whenever you’re ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire quickly sheds her clothes, folding them up and laying the bundle on the sink counter. She gathers her brushes and featherpick from the cabinet and sets them to the side of the tub before climbing in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pleased groan slips from her lips as she sinks into the steaming water, the heat an immediate balm on her sore body. She hangs her wings over the edges of the tub, not wanting to get them wet. The rest of her soaks up the heat for a minute, her mind temporarily eclipsed by the simple comfort of being </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, throughout her whole body, even seeping into her wings where they rest against the walls of the tub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly she pulls back to her senses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in,” she says, sitting up and drawing her knees to her chest as her apprehension suddenly spikes. Lord, what was she thinking? Naked in the tub, </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alice to touch her. She doesn’t feel vulnerable, but the intimacy still intimidates her; they were still walking the line between fucking and loving when they separated, and now it’s just more complicated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice enters quietly, kneeling at the end of the tub behind Claire. She raises a dripping hand, pointing down at the brushes she’s laid out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you can just get the backs,” Claire says, voice kept low, as though not to pop the bubble of calm around them. “They feel dirty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises her wings, spreading them open across the rim of the tub. They must seem small to Alice, compared to her own impressive span. Even so, Claire’s not too shabby; hers are still considered rather large by normal standards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice inspects her for a moment before picking up a soft brush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If this is what you consider dirty, I’m surprised I lasted even a day around you with my feathers so trashed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Claire muses. “I don’t know how you could stand it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got used to it, somehow. Bad habits die hard and all that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice’s hand lands on her wing, a gentle, inquisitive pressure. She shivers at the touch but doesn’t move away, and Alice’s hand lays fully on her feathers, stroking across the surface. She lingers a moment more before beginning to brush over them, deliberately focusing on the base of her wings, where the uncomfortable ache was strongest. Each stroke lessens the discomfort, pulling it from her feathers like oil skimmed from water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her initial reservations melt under Alice’s touch, and she sinks into her hands. The combination of Alice’s steady touch on her wings and the warmth of the bath lulls her into a relaxed haze. When Alice shifts to the pick and begins to work through her feathers individually, the further touch rouses her somewhat, but she easily resettles again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been ages since another preened her; she had forgotten how nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>meditative</span>
  </em>
  <span> the feeling was. For a moment, she wonders why she’d gone so long eschewing it—and then the ever-present scar of Chris’s absence aches in reminder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She exhales sharply, blinking against the sudden sting, and curls over her knees, hugging them tight to her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice immediately pauses, Claire’s wings having pulled slightly out of her grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” She asks, drawing her hands away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes!” Claire sits up stiffly, then leans back against the tub again. “Yes, I’m fine.” She takes a breath, willing her feathers to lie flat again. “I was just… thinking,” she finishes lamely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I ask what about?” Alice’s hands move against her again; comforting strokes, not even bothering to pretend she was still working over her feathers. Claire leans into it anyway; it’s solid, reassuring pressure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The last person who preened me was my brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice’s hand stutters for the slightest moment, and Claire knows instinctively that an apology is perched on the edge of her lips, so she keeps speaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.” She squeezes her hands, wrapped tight around her knees. “I miss him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chris is still out there. You’ll see him again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could she have forgotten, yet another of Alice’s wonderful gifts? Her agents being sent to Los Angeles, the chance to maybe, impossibly, see her </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. A tear finally slips from her eyes and tips over her cheek, dripping into the steam below. She already had one miracle returned to her; it was too much to hope for another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” Hands smooth across her feathers, guiding her wings closed behind her before brushing over her shoulder. She freezes at the touch; it burns like a brand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Claire.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look at me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sucks in a little breath before she tips her head, laying it against her knee so she can see out over her shoulder to Alice. She hopes her eyes aren’t piteously red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice smiles gently. “He’s alive. I know he is. There’s no way he could have any less fire than you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The same bitter smile rises to Claire’s cheeks as did on the night Chris was first mentioned. But this time, Alice’s conviction melts the ice, and it slips into something softer, grateful for the heartening words.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice’s smile deepens, and she squeezes her shoulder. “Can I brush the rest of your wings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire spreads them wordlessly, extending straight out so that Alice can reach the undersides. She bends determined to the task, working over each feather with care and focus, even though they’re already spotlessly clean. And yet Alice still combs and straightens each worn-thin plume with the utmost dedication, and for the first time in years, the anxiety that usually clings to her feathers like a pack of mites is silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once she’s poured over every single one of Claire’s feathers, Alice puts down the featherpick and runs a lingering palm over her wings before pulling away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should go. Let you stretch out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She moves to stand but Claire’s hand snaps out, latching onto her wrist before she can leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Claire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay.” The word leaves her mouth before her brain can catch up, but her mind’s been overthinking things lately, anyways. “Please?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a childish request, entirely selfish, but— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Alice says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits back down, leaning against the basin. When Claire lays out fully in the tub, finally opening up and relaxing, Alice looks away respectfully, but she lets Claire keep holding her wrist. And when Claire gently twists her hand to twine their fingers together, Alice relinquishes to the hold without protest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in the bathroom for a long while—probably an hour, if not more—until the water grows too cool to be enjoyable. Claire doesn’t try to keep track; her only mark of time is how often Alice squeezes their entwined fingers to keep her from falling asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last she gives Claire a final squeeze before standing and pulling a towel from the rack, holding it open and closing her eyes while Claire climbs from the tub and steps forward, letting herself be wrapped up in the fluffy white material. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she says again. It seemed to be coming up a lot lately.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Anytime.” Alice looks over her once more and then steps back. “Goodnight, Claire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Night, Alice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though the water had grown cold before she got out, warmth suffuses Claire all night. It clings to her long after she towels off and dresses for bed, enveloping her as she cocoons herself in clean sheets. Alice’s touch is like a fiery whisper across her feathers, burning away the cold and loneliness, and Claire dreams of nothing but the deep, comforting dark. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It becomes another wordlessly agreed-upon routine. After dinner, once they all begin to wander off to bed, Alice manages to have a bath drawn if not heated by the time Claire gets to her. Sometimes Alice lingers, sometimes she doesn’t; but usually she stays for a little while, to help Claire preen or simply open whatever book she’d found and read quietly for a spell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She always sets out a towel and leaves before the water gets cold, and Claire makes sure to thank her before she goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it puts an undue strain on Alice’s abilities, she doesn’t mention it, and Claire never finds a trace of shed left on the couch when she walks into the family room. Really, if this </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> putting strain on anyone, it was Claire; as the second week since Alice’s return closes and stretches into a third, something under her skin begins to crawl, a tense, squirming sort of sensation, worse every time Alice stands a little close or her gaze lingers a second too long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another night with a warm bath and Alice’s hands over her wings, and she can’t tell if Alice intends it or not, but her fingers brush against her skin more often than usual, half-second touches down the curve of her spine. Maybe she’s just more aware of it tonight, but regardless, each stroke adds to the unpleasant, flushed feeling under her skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she finally slinks into bed, the cool sheets are a welcome relief, but it’s not enough. Claire grits her teeth and forces away thoughts of once-blonde hair and clever fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s better than this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, evidently, she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as the clock reading 2:36 AM can attest to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tosses the covers off, but it doesn’t help, just makes the outside of her feel frozen compared to the molten core. She glares at the ceiling for a long, long while, until frustration finally overcomes embarrassment. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’ll be quick</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she tells herself. She’d get it done and then go to goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tentatively slides a hand down under the sheets, her fingers clumsy with shame as they slide under her shorts and between her legs. She twitches at her own touch, unexpectedly sensitive. It’s all the better, she supposes; she has no intention of dragging this out, just a fast release to appease her body’s demand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She buries her face in her pillow as she begins to move her fingers. It’s a rough and inelegant rhythm, but she knows it’ll get the job done, and true to form, it takes little time at all before she’s panting muffled into the sheets, hips bucking weakly against her palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not what Claire </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it’s what she’s getting. Flashes of brown curls and dusty feathers flick across her eyelids, but she shoves them away, trying to focus on the building pressure under her fingertips. And yet, try as she might, the images overtake her; suddenly, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alice’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>fingers squeezing at her clit, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alice’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>wings blanketing her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alice’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>shoulder she’s gasping into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire comes with a rush of guilty pleasure and Alice’s name on her tongue.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A split second later, the creak of wood is her only warning before something </span>
  <em>
    <span>shatters</span>
  </em>
  <span> down the hall, the sound deafening as it echoes through the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alarm snaps Claire into action; she yanks her hand from her shorts and stumbles out of bed, throwing open the door to the hallway and rushing out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finds Alice perched precariously atop the couch, a wild look to her, like a spooked animal. The couch is spotted with shed feathers and fragments of wood, and further down, the coffee table lies in pieces across the carpet. Their eyes meet and Claire hardly breathes out an “Are you okay?” before Alice’s hackles flare, her cheeks darkening, and she bolts out the front door, leaving it open and swinging behind her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Alice—</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Claire sprints after the woman, but she’s not nearly fast enough, and Alice disappears into the Alaskan night without a spare glance back. Claire sags against the doorframe, catching her breath and slowing her racing heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn it!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>had spooked her this time? It was the middle of the damn night, and they hadn’t been talking, hadn’t been interrupted mid-confession or anything of the like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. If Alice had decided to freak out and run into the forest for the night, then Claire would just have to wait for her to return. There was no way she could track her down. Alice’s senses were superior in every way; she’d hear her coming from a mile away. The best Claire could do would be to go out and yell her name as though she were a lost dog. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lets out a frustrated huff and runs a hand through her hair— but stops mid-way, distracted by the way the moonlight shines on her fingers, exposing a faint, wet sheen. The sight immediately makes her cheeks burn, and she quickly wipes the slick off on her shorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs again, lifting away from the wall and closing the door—it was too cold to leave it open for long— and turns to the decimated remains of the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s wrecked beyond any dream of repair; it had been ripped apart at the seams, by the </span>
  <em>
    <span>grain</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the wood, shredded into ribbons and then further crushed, scattered about the room. It takes her aback a bit; even when Alice had been assisting with demolition and clearing, her wreckage had been cleaner. What had frightened her? A nightmare? Perhaps she’d heard something, or—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, lord.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what she’d heard; Claire, two fingers deep and choking on Alice's name. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She should’ve known better, shouldn’t have given in to a moment of weakness. How could she have forgotten that nothing went unnoticed by Alice? She’s not going to meet Claire's eyes for days, if she even comes back that soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Equally mortified and disgusted with herself, Claire crawls back into bed, draws the covers up over her face, and waits for sleep to take her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s still too warm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alice isn’t back by the morning. Of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Carlos is there, sweeping up the remaining splinters of wood. The larger shards are stacked by the fireplace; any wood was firewood, she supposed. He pauses when she enters, rubbing her shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any idea why Alice subjected the coffee table to a hit-and-run?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire shrugs, keeping her face carefully neutral. “Nightmare? She told me she broke a bike once that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlos purses his lips. “You need to talk to her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t do anything-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.” He levels the end of the broom to point it at her. “You two have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span> dancing around each other since she returned. I don’t know what exactly happened between you two, but you weren’t as subtle as you hoped in Nevada. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> you care about her and you need to tell her before someone gets hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice isn’t a danger to anyone,” she mumbles, cheeks heating under his stare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlos raises an unamused eyebrow. “You know what I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks away; he’s right, and she knows it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going on an overnight hunting trip in two days. If you promise to talk to Alice, I’ll take K-Mart with me.” His look is expectant and little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>knowing; Claire frowns before the implication hits her, and she blushes anew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s none of your business,” she snaps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>is.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I don’t want to be here to hear it when you two finally get over yourselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire briefly debates the consequences of kicking him out of the house, then shakes her head and retreats to the kitchen. If she was going to be shamed for her poor romantic choices, she might as well have breakfast for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t, I’ll tell K-Mart she’s allowed to date any-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I’ll do it!” Claire shouts back. “I’ll talk to her, jesus. Why the hell do I keep you around, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d go crazy without me,” Carlos grins, sauntering into the kitchen to return the broom to its proper place. “Besides, I can grill like a motherfucker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great,” Claire grumbles, stooping to pull on her boots. “Grill us something while I get the loaf that Katherine promised me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlos rolls his eyes but begins to rummage in the fridge, and Claire shrugs on a coat before opening the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is immediately stopped, however, by the large, dead deer lying on her porch. There’s no obvious wounds, save for a slight trail of blood from each orifice on its head, but it’s obviously a pretty fresh kill. Claire stares at it in stunned silence for a moment before she turns to Carlos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like she left us an apology,” she says, gesturing at the carcass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprise covers his face. “Damn, she really is just a glorified housecat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire snorts. “If Alice is a cat, then she’s a tiger with just enough brain damage to tolerate the rest of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah! It still makes you a crazy cat lady.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire flips him the bird before dragging the deer off the porch and into the closest snowbank. She covers it with more ice, packing it firmly around the animal. Arcadia’s freezing temperatures will keep it preserved until Claire has time to deal with it. She’s got a lot of errands to run, not even considering her job rotation. It’d be a long day, and likely late by the time she could prepare the apology deer. She doesn’t really mind, though; since Carlos decided to force her hand, she only has so much time to figure out how to </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Alice. She knows she’ll be thinking over that particular challenge all day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a sweet gesture, though. The deer. It’s a sizable buck, well over a hundred pounds, and still antlered. It’ll last them several weeks, if Claire butchers it well. Although in that case, maybe she should ask Sloan to do it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. Later. After breakfast. Which would hopefully include bread, if Katherine’s latest experiments with starter and yeast were successful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She misses bread. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hours later, Claire’s feet are aching, but she’s finally free to wrangle with the deer. She drags it to the back of the house, where there’s a covered porch and a thick oak table; it was probably put here for this purpose in the first place. She’s just begun to determine how to lug the deer up onto it when Alice emerges from the brush, nearly giving Claire a heart attack in the process. She sets the knife back down on the table from where she’d grabbed it and takes a deep breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she calls out as the other woman approaches. Curiously, she’s dressed; she must’ve snuck back into the house during the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Alice rasps back, voice and posture awkward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for the deer,” Claire continues. “It’s a fine buck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice merely nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help me lift it up?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps forward and grabs the deer by tail and antler, easily hauling it up and onto the table, arms rippling with muscle even under her shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire picks up her skinning knife and dives in, focusing on the deer and sparing Alice the eye contact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you only here for dinner or are you staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice shuffles her feet behind her. “I’m staying,” she says. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have bolted like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no worry.” She readjusts and starts cutting away the hide, careful to keep it in one piece; it’d be useful if treated correctly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brunette watches her for another minute, then speaks. “Do you want more help with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire straightens, looks back at her. She’s got that same, muted, respectful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yearning</span>
  </em>
  <span> expression that she wears so often now. Claire’s own softens in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d love some,” she replies, handing her a blade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They work in comfortable silence save for Claire’s instructions, absorbed in the task, but after a little while, Alice begins to talk, recounting the tracking of the deer and the wildlife she’d seen along the way. Claire’s seen a lot on her own trips, but with Alice’s preternatural grace, she’s not surprised that the other woman saw so much more; she moves like one of them, more at ease among the instinctive and natural than humanity. Alaska suits her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes them nearly an hour, all in all; it might’ve gone quicker if Claire was on her own, but she enjoys teaching Alice, showing her where to cut and what sections were worth saving. Plus, Alice’s strength is a nice bonus, letting her turn and position the body without difficulty. The sun sets as they work, but Claire lights a precious oil-lantern and they continue. When they finish, it is completely dark outside, and they are both bloody to their elbows, but it feels like they're back on even ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlos pokes his head out the backdoor as they’re cleaning off their hands and blades. “Dinner is ready when you are,” he announces. He shoots a meaningful look at Claire, and she scowls back. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll come in in a minute,” Claire says, surreptitiously shooing him back into the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll keep it hot.” He leaves her with one last emphatic jerk of his head before closing the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone again, Claire groans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something wrong?” Alice asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Claire says. “Well— maybe. Look, about last night-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice stiffens beside her, looks away. “I didn’t mean to break it, I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice.” she lays a hand on her arm. “It’s okay. Really, it's my fault. I was… acting indecently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stares resolutely at the table; Claire forges on. “I know we’ve been avoiding talking about it these past two weeks, and that’s also my doing. I wasn’t… I wasn’t ready to jump back into this. Into </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” she drags her palm down, nestling it within Alice’s, and she folds her fingers around Claire’s. “But I am now.” She looks up. “I want to try again. If you’ll still have me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Claire.” Alice’s other hand rises to cradle her cheek; Claire leans into the touch without hesitation. “Of course I will. I never gave you up in the first place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I made you wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small, breathy laugh leaves Alice. “It’s only fair. I expected longer, to be honest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just easy,” Claire sighs. “Well, easy for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> I don’t believe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs. “The second half is true.” A sheepish smile crawls over her face. “And, if we’re being honest, Carlos told me I had to because he’s hunting overnight this week, and he said he, quote, ‘doesn’t want to be here to hear it when you two finally get over yourselves’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gets a good chuckle out of Alice. “I didn’t think you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>loud.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire grins. “Either way, if you don’t have me screaming enough to get a noise complaint tomorrow night, I’m taking back my offer to start over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gasps in mock offense. “You wound me, Claire. Eight months of dreaming about you, and you think I’m not pent-up enough to fuck you senseless?” She shakes her head. “And here I’d hoped you’d know better. Maybe I should bend you over this table right now and give you a reminder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Alice!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Claire squawks, but the brunette just laughs, and she gives in, joining her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally calm down, Alice catches her other hand and leans forward, resting their foreheads against one another. Her wings slide open to curve around them, and Claire opens her own to match. It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> presenting; they’re mostly wrapped around each other, but it’s close enough that Claire’s heart still lurches in her chest. Their noses brush together as she blinks back tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you,” she whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you too,” Alice whispers back. They’re so close that their lips skim against each other when they speak, and each brief touch sends fireworks racing across her skin. Claire’s eyes flutter close in anticipation, and Alice’s hands grip tighter around hers, but she doesn’t close the distance between them. Claire opens back up, confused, but as soon as she sees Alice’s imploring gaze, she understands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still her choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hurts in the sweetest of ways; at this point, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>should be used to how painfully tender Alice can be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire tilts her head up the slightest bit to meet Alice, and their lips slot together perfectly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kissing Alice is where she belongs. The caravan, endlessly rolling across the dunes, had not held any sort of solace, and even after settling here in Alaska, in an actual house with hearth, the only place that she ever really called </span>
  <em>
    <span>home </span>
  </em>
  <span>is nestled in the bow of Alice’s lips. Claire kisses her, and it feels like stepping across the threshold. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eight months of dreaming about you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Months to think only of the texture of Alice’s lips against hers. Not even her loneliest fantasies can compare to the real thing. She doesn’t need air when she’s kissing Alice; she’s sustained wholly by the taste of her. Minutes or hours can go by, and she won’t notice; nothing is more important than the spaces where they meet, the starbursts where Alice’s fingers touch her, be they twined between her own, or holding her close by the waist, or cradling her jaw with shy reverence. Her world is reduced to the space inside their wings; nothing outside their feathers could ever touch them. She’d probably be able to stay here forever, suspended in this moment for infinity, an endless study of how Alice's lips move over her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the backdoor creaks open again, and they freeze in place, caught red-handed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s starting to get cold,when are you-” Carlos pauses, taking in the sight of Alice and Claire </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> much wrapped around each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I interrupting?” He deadpans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Alice snarks against her lips. Claire muffles her giggle in Alice’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t see Carlos; she’s facing away, but she knows he’s rolling his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay lovebirds, get your asses inside. I'm hungry.” The door begins to close, but at the last second, he holds it open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And look, I’m happy for you two, I really am, but if I hear any funny business tonight-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carlos.” Claire’s icy tone invites no further complaint. He shuts the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two women disentangle with sheepish reluctance, and even then, Alice keeps their fingers loosely twined, unwilling to be fully parted.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He really wasn’t joking about not wanting to be here,” Alice chuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s just disappointed that even though he met you first and dragged you out of hell, I’m the one who’s got you wrapped around their finger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His loss. Maybe if his butt was half as cute as yours-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pig.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice squeezes her hand sharply, but it’s playful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-he’d have had better luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> loud, to be fair,” Claire teases, pulling Alice towards the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re worse,” Alice grumbles, but lets herself be led. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I am, it’s your fault.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah! Yeah, it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire rolls her eyes but grins, and they pile inside for dinner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once again, Alice beats her to the bathroom; Claire is greeted with a haze of steam when she opens the door. The brushes and featherpick are already set out, as well as a few new additions, chief of which is what appears at first glance to be a lotion bottle. Lord knows where Alice had scrounged that up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice turns with a wide smile as she enters, rising from her crouch to meet Claire and press their lips together again. She happily takes the attention; it seems Alice hadn’t lost her insatiable need to always be touching the redhead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Thank you,” Claire murmurs once they finally separate. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were excited about something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> should be excited; I’ve got the second part of your surprise,” Alice replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you-” her heart stutters and her cheeks warm with delight. “You had </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Alice, really-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I had more,” Alice says, snaking her arms around Claire’s waist. Yes, definitely still had to have a hand on her at all times. “I never half-ass anything, and besides, you deserve it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire buries her face in Alice’s shoulder again, hiding the way she flushes with pleased embarrassment. Funny how touching Alice felt so natural, so quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I dare ask how much you have planned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s only one more thing after this,” Alice tells her. “And that’s also kind of a present for me. Anyway, hurry up and get in the tub so I can show you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She presses another quick peck to Claire’s cheek before pulling away, intending to step out as per usual, but Claire doesn’t wait for her to exit before she starts stripping, swiftly shucking her flannel and peeling her jeans down her legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice chokes on a cough behind her, and Claire throws a vicious grin over her shoulder as she steps into the bath. The heat draws a moan from her lips, and it is, perhaps, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little </span>
  </em>
  <span>louder and more drawn out than it needs to be, and she delights in the way the tendons of Alice’s neck flex in response, but she doesn’t say anything. She just lays her hands on Claire’s wings, drawing them out to display before her, and at the touch, all of Claire’s teasing confidence dissolves. She can feel Alice’s eyes on her as burning spots, roving over feathers and pale skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hoping to give you this sooner, before we were separated,” Alice says, her heated gaze relenting while she leans down to the tools spread beside her. Claire twitches as the brush presses against her feathers and begins to stroke across. “But I’m not entirely mad. It gave me time to practice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Preening?” She </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been wondering when Alice got so good at it; all evidence had pointed to her not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching </span>
  </em>
  <span>her own wings the entire time she was in the desert. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Alice confirms. “Flying is a great advantage, so my clones and I made time to keep our wings in shape. It also helped us-” she clicks her tongue, considering. “Bond? It made it less weird.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can only imagine. Staring at your own face for so long.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> odd,” Alice chuckles. “Uncomfortable at first, but I—</span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>—all grew used to it. It was strange, really; some of the clones had almost no concrete memories. They were fully formed, could walk and talk, but they didn’t have any context for it. And yet they were still </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire hums in reply, thinking. If all went well, she’d be in the same situation soon; the clones would relocate to Arcadia and she’d be surrounded by copies of Alice. Which would </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>be weird as hell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose it’s good that you get along with yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, yeah. It helps that you don’t often butt heads when you all have the same idea. Or close to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case, given how head over heels you are, I don’t look forward to a pack of clones fighting you over me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A deep, rich laugh bursts out of Alice. “Oh, I think some of them might </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but they all know you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I made that very clear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The slight growl to her voice sends a pleased shiver down her spine. “You talked about me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the time. I think they got sick of it. After all, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I escaped Detroit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her heart clenches and Claire twists out of her hands to stare fully at the brunette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got to stop saying those kinds of things, Alice. Either I’m going to start bawling or drag you in here with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe me, I’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.” She leans in and kisses Claire, slow and deep. “But if I did, I don’t think I could keep myself from disappointing Carlos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d be pleasing me,” Claire offers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Alice returns, a husky tint to the words. “But once we start, I’m not stopping until you can’t feel your legs anymore. And as much as I want to do that, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to traumatize our housemates with your screaming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bold words,” Claire counters, even as her face turns fuschia. “But fair enough.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice smiles, wolflike, and kisses Claire again, the slightest squeeze of her teeth drawing a small gasp from Claire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow,” Alice promises. “Turn around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Claire immediately complies, Alice leans over again, giving the top of the maybe-lotion bottle a few pumps into her hands. Claire recognizes the scent, but she can’t quite place it; it’s cut through with something floral that muddles the smell. She opens her mouth to ask, but Alice sets her hands on her wings, and the cool, familiar sensation immediately answers her question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’d you find </span>
  <em>
    <span>preen oil</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” she gasps, disbelieving even as Alice carefully works it into her dry feathers. “I thought it’d all been snapped up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have my ways,” Alice says, enigmatic as always. “I knew you’d appreciate it, so I kept looking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> does; she’d been one of the people who’d hoarded it in the first place. When cigarettes gave out, her wings were still there, and she’d turned to them in place of nicotine to satisfy the itch under her skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she whispers, sinking into Alice’s hands. “You’ve given me such wonderful gifts, and I have nothing to offer back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you do,” Alice says, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly. “You’re alive.” She plants a kiss on her left shoulder. “You’re here.” To the right. “And you’re with me.” She brushes Claire’s hair aside and presses her lips to the back of her neck, where her feathers were small and downy as they reached up to her hairline. It sends a faint shiver through her, and Alice smiles against her skin. “That’s all I need, Claire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She concentrates on breathing steadily through her nose. “Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> I can’t convince you to join me?” if she doesn’t play it off as an invitation, she’s definitely going to cry, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t want to ruin the mood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you before not to tempt me,” Alice rasps. “Don’t do it now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire huffs and sinks further into the water. Alice resumes lathering the oil into her feathers, and before long she falls back into her usual relaxed haze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something like three-quarters of an hour passes before Claire resurfaces into consciousness. Alice has finished preening and oiling her wings, and now has them drawn over her lap, stroking across her coverts and carding her fingers through the down underneath, perpetually fascinated by the different sensations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you.” Claire tilts her head back, trying as best she can to look up at the other woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey yourself,” Alice replies, fingers playing along the edges of the limbs. “Are you done, or should I heat it back up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “I’m ready to get out.” The water is still </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>pleasantly warm, but her fingers are getting wrinkly, and better things await her outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rises from the water as Alice reaches for a towel, and she holds the other woman’s gaze as she steps into it. Carefully, Alice draws the fluffy cloth across her body, drying her off with precious care. Neither brings up the fact that Claire is perfectly capable of doing this herself. Just as Claire’s anxiety has to be brushed out of her wings, Alice has to do this. She needs to be in control, protecting, taking care of someone. In the desert, she had torn men apart for Claire. Here, in the sanctuary of the bathroom, Alice merely kneels to wipe drops of water from her thighs, but something in the act feels far more sacred. Claire feels— she feels vulnerable, she feels divine. Deified by Alice’s touch, wicking away her earthly chrysalis to reveal something far greater underneath. Something only Alice could see. She trembles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Alice at last stands and wraps the towel around to cover her, Claire lets out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding, and grounds herself in the sensation of the cool tiles under her feet. Whatever Alice made of her, tonight was not the time to explore it. Perhaps not even tomorrow— tomorrow was for teeth and screaming, not silent, finger-tip prayers. The day after, then. When they were tired enough to be reverent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, Claire slips on her tank top and shorts, and nestles beneath Alice’s chin. Her wings come around them, dark and angelic, and Claire loses the distinction between their bodies. But wrapped so tight and warm together, does it even matter?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she decides. </span>
  <em>
    <span>As long as we never let go</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nights in Alaska are long, even more so in the winter; a small eternity in each. For this little slice of infinity, they don’t let go; they barely move at all. And it is enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> They’re home.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'd like to have this final comment just be *ugly sobbing* BUT yall deserve another thank you.<br/>THANK YOU SO MUCH for the comments, they really mean so much. especially to sev and Casually_Dead for leaving comments on Every. Single. Chapter. wow. i'm- sdhgilshdg . thank you!!</p><p>ALSO, IMPORTANT: i am neither a fool nor a coward-- the lovebirds Will Fuck, and it Will be long and hot and heavy and emotional and probably take another two weeks BUT it Will be written and posted as soon as I can. I just,, got to 15k, looked at my screen, and realized I would not be able to edit anything longer in one sitting. Also, y'all deserve to have this-- it's been like, a month? yikes-- and I didn't want to make yall wait any longer :)</p><p>So-- Pyre is basically complete! Yes the smut chapter is coming and I have a couple shorts about alaskan life planned, but otherwise, yeehaw and on to other projects ;0 it'll still be clairice though. I'm in too deep.</p><p>See yall next time!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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